Minimi 

(I 


•09 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Gl  FT    OF 


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rr 


MY  OWN   PHILOSOPHY 


MY  OWN  PHILOSOPHY  and  Other 
Poems  and  Dramas,  by  Werner  Eggerth, 
Author  and  Publisher.  Price  $1.50  post- 
paid. 

Parties  desiring  to  use  either  of  the 
plays  on  the  stage,  please  address  the 
Author  at  1614  Montgomery  Ave.,  Spok- 
ane, Wash.  As  only  a  limited  number  of 
copies  have  been  published,  the  Author 
desires  to  hear  from  publishers  who  may 
be  willing  to  issue  a  larger  edition  on  the 
"royalty,  plan." 


MY  OWN   PHILOSOPHY 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  AND 
DRAMAS 


BY 


WERNER   EGGERTH 


(Flj*  Cokroft*  f  rwa 

R.  R.  DONNELLEY  &  SONS  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 

BY 
WERNER  EGGERTH 


TO 
CLEMENTINE 

MY   KIND  WIFE,  AND  FAITHFUL  HELPER. 


183083 


CONTENTS 


HUMOROUS  POEMS 

PAGE 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  DOLLAR 3 

How  TO  RAISE  POTATOES 4 

RADIUM  AND  HELIUM              6 

A  LUCKLESS  DOG 7 

WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  ? 9 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  SUNDOGS 10 

PHILOSOPHY 12 

THE  NIGHTMARE 13 

WHEN  PAT  SET  FIRE  TO  THE  SLOUGH      .         .         .         .14 

To  LUCULLUS 16 

POLITICS 19 

RETRIBUTION .         .         .20 

A  WISE  CHICKEN 21 

THE  SHREWDNESS  OF  DARWIN 21 

PRINCE  LAGOBE 22 

THE  DUDE 25 

THE  TACTICIAN  26 


EARLY  POEMS 

EVOLUTION 27 

THE  NATURE  OF  GOD  .29 

ON  OKOBOJI  LAKE 30 

PEACE  BORN  IN  STRIFE 31 

WHENEVER 32 

A  SONG  FOR  AMERICANS  WHO  ARE  IN  FOREIGN  COUNTRIES  33 

vii 


Contents 


GOD  AND  His  CREATURES 34 

VIRTUE 37 

THE  WIND 38 

LIFE  is  A  STREAM 39 

BE  YE  READY 40 

THE  FATE  OF  ALL  CREATION 41 

FOR  A  HARVEST  FESTIVAL 42 

THE  BEST  REMEDY 45 

A  FOREST  IDYLL 46 

THE  COSMOPOLITAN 47 

I'VE  SEEN  THEM  BLOOM  AND  FADE         ....  48 

A  DELUSION 49 

A  RAINY  DAY 50 

FAME  AND  LOVE 51 

PEACE 52 

AN  IDYLL  OF  THE  FOREST 53 

THE  FOG  HORN 59 

THE  DIGNITY  OF  LABOR 60 

To  THEE  ALONE 61 

THE  AVENGER  OF  IBICUS 62 

SOLITUDE 63 

IN  MEMORY  OF  EMILIE  BAUER 65 

As  FAR  AS  IT  GOES .67 

THE  CYCLONE 68 

SORROW 69 

LOVE'S  DEATH 71 

WHY  SHOULD  No   LIVING   BEING   SAVE   MAN   HAVE  A 

SOUL? 72 

A  MYTHOLOGICAL  ORGY 74 

WHY  REPINE  ? 76 

AMERICA 78 

A  TALE 79 

TAKE  PRIDE  IN  THY  CALLING 82 

HUMAN  NATURE 83 

via 


Contents 


LATER  POEMS 

Too  LITTLE  OF  ANYTHING  Is  BUT  A  CURSE      ...  84 

YESTERDAY .         .         .  85 

COMPENSATION 86 

To  BABY  CARMEN 88 

To  BYRON 89 

To  HANNA 90 

THE  GOLDEN  MEAN 93 

IT  CANNOT  LAST 94 

WELCOME 96 

To  EMMA 97 

THE  DYING  STRAINS  OF  ALEXANDER  THOMPSON       .         .  98 

LIFE  EVERYWHERE 99 

HOARDING 101 

GRANDPAPA 103 

PURSES  AND  PATRIOTISM 104 

LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT 105 

To  GENTLE  KATE 106 

CONSCIENCE,  THE  SAVIOR 108 

JULY  4TH,  1895 109 

LIFE in 

HARMONY  IN  NATURE in 

RULES  AND  FOOLS 113 

THE  ARCHITECT 114 

REASONING 118 

PROGRESSIVE  EGOTISM  AND  ITS  REBUKE  .         .         .119 

TRUTH 122 

DOES  DRESS  MAKE  THE  MAN? 123 

SUNSHINE  IN  THE  HEART 124 

THE  ECHO 125 

As  WORTHLESS  AS  DUST 126 

REVENGE      .........  128 

THE  BREATH  OF  GOD 129 


Contents 


THE  BROWN  MAN'S  BURDEN          .         .                  .         .  130 

SPRING 132 

MY  HOBBY 133 

CHANGE,  NOT  REST 134 

THE  NIGHT 136 

ETERNAL  PUNISHMENT  A  FAILURE  .         .         .         -137 

MIND'S  SOLITUDE 138 

MUSINGS  OF  A  DREAMER 139 

MEMORY 141 

THE  TALE  OF  THE  SCISSORS  GRINDER     .         .         .         .143 

A  PROPHECY 145 

THE  DUTIES  OF  THE  GIFTED 148 

TIME 150 

YOUR  FACE  WILL  TELL  THE  STORY 151 

TRANSLATIONS 

POESY  AND  WOMAN 153 

THE  POET'S  PREROGATIVES 154 

I  CRAVE  OF  THEE 155 

HOMAGE  TO  THE  ARTS 155 

PERSEVERANCE 156 

THE  COMMON  GROUND           156 

THE  PARTITIONING  OF  THE  EARTH  .         .         .         -157 

DRAMA. 

AMONG  THE  PIONEERS     .         .         .         .         .         .159 

STRIFE  AND  PEACE 191 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  BAROTINS  .  .         .         .         .229 

MY  OWN  PHILOSOPHY.    Part  I 257 

MY  OWN  PHILOSOPHY.    Part  II 275 


PROLOGUE 

Each  takes  the  wealth  he  finds  to  store  and  keep 

Which  doth  appeal  to  his  own  taste  and  bent, 

And  gives  in  life's  turmoil  and  endless  strife 

What  he  accumulates  and  well  can  spare. 

The  lover  seeks  for  love,  returning  all 

E'er  finding  more,  again  his  store  to  swell  — 

And  he  who  straining,  toils  with  hand  and  head, 

While  carving  patiently  the  lifeless  stone 

Returneth  all  improved,  if  he  his  task 

Doth  understand,  and  knows  his  craft  by  heart. 

The  poet,  too,  doth  try  to  sate  each  day 
The  craving  of  his  hungry  soul  and  mind, 
And  stooping  low  in  search  for  spoils  and  gain 
Which,  overlooked  by  others,  are  his  prey  — 
And  reaching  high,  outspeeding  sound  and  light, 
O'erleaping  chasms  which  would  awe,  appall, 
His  less  discerning  brothers  in  their  trend, 
He  taketh  in,  to  hold  and  to  digest 
And  to  return,  in  shape  more  apt  to  please, 
To  those  who  fail  to  see  the  cause  of  things 
Which  they  do  fear,  admire  —  not  understand  — 
He  fills  his  heart,  his  soul,  his  weighing  mind 
With  things  which  no  one  else  appears  to  see, 
And  throes  he  feels,  while  moulding  into  shape 
His  fitful  and  evasive  thoughts,  which  come 
And  go  at  will;   and  which,  if  not  at  once 
Retained  like  fortune's  gifts,  will  flee  and  fade 
Ne'er  to  return.     These  throes  proportioned  are 
With  the  results,  the  products  of  his  mind. 


Prologue 


The  Poet  gives,  but  what  he  is  and  has  — 
He  gives  his  mind  unveiled,  disclosed,  revealed  — 
Gives  each  impulse  he  felt,  and  thought  he  grasped, 
And  plainly  shows  each  change  he  underwent 
In  course  of  time,  amid  most  searching  pain. 
His  secrets  are  not  his  —  to  God,  the  world, 
The  elements  he  speaks,  returning  that 
Which  all  gave  him,  and  he  cannot  retain. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE   DOLLAR 

[An  alleged  discovery  that  life  could  be  prolonged  through  the  injection 
of  a  fluid  from  the  lymphatic  glands  of  a  goat,  prompted  the  following  lines.] 

Not  "dollars"  but  "goats,"  be  the  watchword  hereafter; 

Not  wealth  nor  possessions  less  potent  will  count. 
The  bandit,  sharp-witted,  with  scorn-tinted  laughter, 

Rejecting  gold's  glitter,  doth  wisdom's  perch  mount. 

"Your  life  or  your  goat!"  is  the  war  cry  he  utters, 
While  springing  at  you  like  a  chick  at  a  worm  — 

And  the  kidnaper,  too,  derisively  mutters: 
"The  kid  of  the  biped  is  a  fraud,  I  affirm!" 

"Hereafter,  I'll  nab  but  the  genuine  goaties, 

The  urchins  of  Billy,  the  hope  of  my  clan. 
I  pledge  myself  herewith,  and  duly  give  notice : 

I'll  gather  them  up,  just  as  fast  as  I  can." 

The  Bank  will  hereafter  of  locks  show  no  traces, 

And  still  be  secure,  unless  —  lucky  fate  — 
Perchance  it  doth  harbor,  within  its  arched  spaces, 

A  voucher  of  Billy,  or  a  deed  to  his  mate. 

Not  kingdoms,  but  goats,  doth  the  monarch  require  — 
And  the  poor  cotter's  fancy  doth  covet  a  pair. — 

"  Goats"  is  the  one  thing  to  which  all  aspire  — 
And  he,  thus  equipped,  is  a  Billionaire.   (Billy-owner.) 

3 


Humorous  Poems 


The  aim  of  the  humble  was  e'er  bread  and  butter, 
Since  Adam  got  fooled  by  the  reptile  so  vile. 

But  now  the  ambition  of  each  wily  blotter, 
Is  the  "Butter"  alone,  for  to  make  up  his  pile. 

And  Nanny,  the  Buttress,  in  more  than  one  meaning, 
Will  rise  in  esteem,  as  a  staff  and  a  stay, 

Upon  which  all  mankind,  confidingly  leaning, 
Face  calmly  the  menace  of  toothless  decay. 


HOW  TO  RAISE  POTATOES 

Take  mellow  soil,  well  plowed  and  harrowed, 
And  much  manure, —  paid  for,  or  borrowed 

It  matters  not,  if  only  it 
Has  the  essence,  which,  when  it's  lacking, 
Is  prominent  by  not  attacking 

Thy  sense  of  smell  —  for  purpose  fit. 

Mix  in  the  dung,  then  in  straight  lines  — 
Let  crookedness  stay  in  confines 

Mapped  out  by  chiefs  of  politics, 
Who  pose  as  grangers,  to  our  grief, 
And  rob  us,  crying,  "Hold  the  thief!"  — 

Lay  out  the  rows,  and  call  on  Hicks. 

For  without  Hicks,  your  work  is  vain, 
His  nod  means  storm,  his  winking,  rain ; 

And  when  he  smiles,  it  often  thunders. 
When  well  assured  of  his  good  will 
Procure  such  tubers  as  will  fill 

Your  taste  and  bent,  avoiding  blunders. 
4 


Humorous  Poems 


The  largest  ones,  with  fine,  clear  eyes  — 
My  advice,  friend,  do  not  despise, 

For  eyes  reflect  the  soul  more  true 
Than  sound  of  voice,  though  sweetly  ringing, 
Than  clasp  of  hand,  or  footsteps  springing  — 

Now  cut  to  shape,  and  then  pursue. 

Proceed  to  dig,  quite  deep,  not  shallow  — 
All  superficial  work,  dear  fellow, 

Offends  the  dollars,  which  will  roll, 
When  from  Fortuna's  apron  falling, 
The  other  way.     'Tis  oft  appalling 

How  they  escape  from  men's  control. 

Potato  bugs,  in  swarms  untold, 
And  silver  bugs,  and  bugs  of  gold, 

Are  always  near.     The  former  nibble 
As  if  by  contract  bound  to  kill. 
The  latter  two  their  stomachs  fill 

With  unripe  fruit,  and  ever  quibble. 

Use  Paris  green  to  interfere, — 

The  color's  not  essential  here. — 

With  first  named  bugs,  whose  greed  is  shocking. 
The  latter  two,  lure  to  their  doom 
By  talking  of  the  "Klondike  Boom," 

And  precious  dust  to  fill  their  stocking. 

From  thorough  work  do  not  recoil, 
Keep  down  the  weeds,  and  loose  the  soil, 

With  rake  and  hoe  or  cultivator, — 
The  sproutings  and  the  fungus,  too, 
In  heart  and  mind,  my  friend,  subdue, — 

And  thou  wilt  raise  a  perfect  "tater." 
5 


Humorous  Poems 


Let  not  the  size  of  fruit  deceive 
Thy  erring  eye.     Asunder  cleave 

Or  careful  weigh :  for  often  hollow 
The  largest  ones  are  found  to  be. — 
In  judging  men,  the  same  degree 

Of  care  employ,  before  you  follow. 

Alas,  my  friend,  'tis  sad  indeed, 

When  we,  in  search  for  wealth,  succeed 
To  find  a  great  big  empty  hole. 

For  hollowness  in  tubers  and 

In  human  kind,  none  e'er  should  stand. 
Let  "solidness"  be  thy  parole. 


RADIUM  AND  HELIUM 

When  rogues  ill-gotten  plunder, 

From  State  or  Nation  steal, 
And  live  on,  undetected, 

They  call  each  doubtful  deal 
A  case  of  radiation, 

Wherein  the  cash  supply, 
Or  Radium  as  aptly, 

In  all  the  winds  doth  fly. 

But  when  these  rogues  encounter 

The  Law's  relentless  grasp, 
They  change  their  cheerful  chorus, 

To  doleful  tunes,  which  rasp. 
Of  Radium  no  longer, 

Doth  deal  their  saddened  strain, 
But  "Helium,  oh  Hel  —  him," 

Remains  their  sole  refrain. 
6 


Humorous  Poems 


A  LUCKLESS   DOG 

Once  there  was  a  cunning  fellow, 
Who  a  queer  old  gun  possessed, 
Which  he'd  use  a  coon  to  mellow, 
And  he'd  let  it  roar  and  bellow, 
When  for  meat  his  larder  pressed. 

Yet  this  gun,  whose  virtue  surely, 

Placed  it  in  the  lead  of  tools 
Which  would  kill  —  went  prematurely 
Off,  and  kicked,  if  loaded  poorlyj 
By  the  hands  of  careless  fools. 

To  this  fellow  came  a  stranger, 
With  the  purpose  to  improve 
His  own  health,  which  was  in  danger, 
And  to  threaten,  as  a  ranger, 

Others'  healths,  while  on  the  move. 

And,  equipped  with  warnings  ample, 

And  with  stores  of  lead  to  boot, 
He  began,  in  Nature's  temple 
Future  victories  to  sample  — 
In  other  words,  began  to  shoot. 

But  he  hit,  alas,  I  swear  it, 

Nothing  but  the  patient  air, 
Which,  although  abused,  did  bear  it, 
Better  far  than  he,  whose  merit 
As  hunter,  dwindled  then  and  there. 

7 


Humorous  Poems 


"What,"  cried  he,  "how  solve  this  puzzle, 
Which  confounds  and  angers  me?" 

And  he  looked  into  the  muzzle, 

And  his  lips,  as  if  to  guzzle, 
Pressed  against  the  barrel  he. 

"Ah,"  cried  he,  "more  powder's  needed, 

And  momentum  will  ensue." 
And  in  haste,  he  then  proceeded  — 
While  the  ramrod  swift  he  speeded, — 

Coy  Miss  Fortune  to  subdue. 

He  the  gunstock  o'er  his  shoulder, 

Held,  well  knowing  it  might  kick  — 
And  a  chipmunk,  scarcely  older 
Than  his  pet  dog,  on  a  boulder, 
He  espied,  and  then  a  click. 

Click  and  bang!     What  a  commotion! 

Clouds  of  smoke,  and  there  a  heap, 
Which  —  I  say  with  due  devotion 
To  the  truth  —  looked,  to  my  notion 

Like  a  wreck,  in  oceans  deep. 

For  the  gun,  as  was  expected, 
Had  discharged  its  two-way  force, 

And  the  canine,  who  neglected 

Due  precaution,  was  dissected 
By  the  gunshaft  in  its  course. 

Thus  we  see  that  retribution 

Overshot  the  end  in  view  — 
For  one  fearing  dissolution 
Should  all  thoughts  of  execution, 

In  his  craven  heart  subdue. 
8 


Humorous  Poems 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

(Written  at  the  time  that  Makaroff  sunk  with  his  ship.) 

Here  have  we  Japan's  Emperor, 

Whose  name,  all  know,  is  Mudsihito, 

Which  means,  one  who  hits  hard  and  often, 
Both  openly,  and  incognito. 

Will  he,  on  land,  as  on  the  oceans 

Deal  out  the  same  convincing  potions  ? 

And  there  the  far-famed  Makaroff 
With  whom  his  own  ship  made  away, 

Alas,  too  soon  for  those  who  hoped 
That  he  would  o'er  the  oceans  sway, — 

That  he'd  make  off  with  Japan's  fleet 

And  thus  the  Islanders  defeat. 

And  whom  will  Kuropatkin  cure  ? 

Will  he  strike  terror  in  the  ranks 
Of  those  queer  little  Patkins  who 

Now  play  their  shrewd,  mischievous  pranks  ? 
Or  will  the  cure  his  name  implies 
Fall  back  on  those  he  justifies  ? 

There's  Stoessel,*  too,  what  may  expect 
The  hard,  unbiased  world  of  him  ? 

Will  he  pound  out  the  enemy 

Or  his  own  comrades,  stout  and  grim  ? 

The  question  is,  twixt  me  and  you 

What,  oh  what,  will  Stoessel  do  ? 

*  Stoessel,  in  German,  means  pounder. 

9 


Humorous  Poems 


To  come,  to  go,  all  seems  the  same, 
To  those  who  in  all  things  succeed. 

And  Togo  is  one  of  the  boys 

Who  doth  no  pointers  from  me  need  — 

Yet  after  all  is  said,  we  know, 

E'en  Togo,  too,  will  have  to  go. 

There's  Takahito,  prince  of  Japan, 
A  name  which  truthfully  suggests, 

That  give  and  take  is  e'er  the  order 
Where  force  decides,  while  reason  rests  - 

For  reason  not  by  force  sustained 

Hath  often  failed,  and  nothing  gained. 


THE   ORIGIN   OF  THE   SUNDOGS 

In  the  dim  long  ago,  in  the  milky  way  strolling, 
Abstracted,  old  Sol  charming  Luna  espied, 

Who,  on  the  way  home  from  a  tea  at  the  Virgin, 
Seemed  flurried  and  flustered,  and  dejectedly  sighed. 

Said  Sol,  while  he  stroked  his  long  beard,  "  To  my  notion, 

Thou'rt  angered,  my  child;  what  portends  thy  emotion?" 

"At  the  Virgin,"  said  Luna,  "all  planets  had  gathered, 
And  stars  of  high  lustre,  and  comets  with  tails 

As  long  as  my  orbit.     But  all  to  describe, 
I  am  illy  equipped,  and  my  memory  fails  — 

Yet  do  I  remember  that  Neptune  cried,  'Ho! 

Long  tails  must  be  curtailed,  and  satellites  go ! ' 

"  Jupiter  remarked  then,  '  I  am  a  reformer, 
And  favor  a  law  which  doth  strangers  compel 
10 


Humorous  Poems 


To  cross  no  one's  pathway,  e'en  though  it  be  ample 
And  clear  at  the  moment.     I'd  furthermore  swell 
The  income  of  planets,  by  smashing  a  few 
Of  second  rate  bodies,  'twixt  me  and  'twixt  you.' 

"The  stars  calmly  twinkled,  for  they  were  well  fixed, 
And  paid  no  attention  to  all  the  uproar. 

But  comets  and  moons  were  truly  offended 
And  from  all  the  clamor,  both  tired  and  sore. 

And  again  the  cry  echoed,  with  fury  increased : 

'A  tail  is  a  nuisance,  except  on  a  beast.' 

"The  turmoil  of  voices  was  sorely  appalling, 
E'en  Venus,  the  charmer,  whom  Mars  doth  adore, 

Forgetting  that  anger  is  death  to  all  beauty, 
Allowed  her  shrill  voice  with  the  chorus  to  soar. 

'The  comets  are  welcome,  the  moons  are  O.  K., 

The  former,  if  tailless;  the  other  away.' 

"They  forthwith  attacked  us,  who,  seeking  salvation, 
Sought  it  in  flight  without  further  delay. — 

I,  riding  the  tail  of  a  loosely  built  stranger, 
Noted  the  groundswell,  while  moving  away. 

'Death  and  corruption  to  satellites  bold,' 

And,  'off  with  the  tails  that  the  comets  enfold.' 

"'A  tail  of  dimensions,'  cried  Mars  in  his  anger, 
While  hacking  away  at  the  one  I  did  mount, 

'  Which  all  doth  engulf,  and  whose  volume  doth  smother 
The  sight  of  a  planet  of  foremost  account, 

No  longer  shall  space,  which  for  all  doth  exist, 

Fill  and  usurp,  with  its  vapors  and  mist.' 

ii 


Humorous  Poems 


"'And  moons,'  cried  Uranus,  'are  as  useless  as  caudals. 

Exist,  but  their  betters  to  cast  in  the  shade. 
Down  with  these  lap-dogs,  whose  yelping  and  whining, 

Doth  the  pure  azure  with  languor  pervade. 
Puncture  the  gas  tails,  and  let  them  collapse, 
And  purge  of  these  monsters,  the  heavenly  maps/ 

" '  Smite  them,  destroy  them,  or  pull  them  apart, 
Or  condensate  all,  to  gain  space  for  to  breathe, 

And  throw  in  the  moonlets,  as  a  spice  for  the  whole, 
And  freeze  it,  or  broil  it,  or  cause  it  to  seethe/ 

Thus  raged  they,  but  fleeing,  we  gained  in  the  race, 

And  now,  I  do  plead  for  thy  justice  and  grace." 

Smiling  spoke  Sol,  "  I  have  noticed  my  planets 
Are  getting  unruly  when  out  of  my  range. 

Yet  fear  not,  my  darling,  I  have  in  my  kennel, 
A  litter  of  puppies,  such  wrongs  to  avenge  — 

And  when  they  appear,  it  will  be  a  cold  day, 

For  those  who  offend  thee,  or  darken  thy  way." 


PHILOSOPHY 

Spencer,  Kant,  and  Schopenhauer, 
Philosophers  of  matchless  power, 
All  agree  that  grapes  are  sour, 

If  they  hang  too  lofty  and  high  — 
And  the  sage  who  penned  these  lines 
Says  he  feels,  and  he  inclines, 
To  think  that  while  the  sun  yet  shines 

Is  the  time  to  work,  not  sigh. 
12 


Humorous  Poems 


He  also  says,  and  thinks,  and  feels, 
That  the  world's  progressive  wheels 
Should  be  oiled  with  oil  from  heels 

Out  of  the  idle  kickers'  socks  — 
And  further,  does  this  scribe  assume 
To  say  that  there  is  surplus  room 
For  each  mortal  to  exhume 

Truths  at  which  the  sluggard  mocks. 

And  at  last,  in  apt  conclusion, 
Let  this  humble  scribe's  allusion 
Be  concise,  to  avoid  confusion, 

In  the  statement  of  his  part  — 
When  he  says,  with  due  emphasis 
That  the  most  terrible  Nemesis 
Who  gnaws  and  tortures  us,  and  crazes, 

Is  the  conscience  in  our  heart. 


THE   NIGHTMARE 

The  beasts  of  the  forests,  whose  teeth  are  a  menace, 
They  frighten  me  ever,  when  near  them  I  draw  — 

The  insect,  e'er  gnawing,  and  buzzing,  and  humming, 
Doth  use  without  mercy,  its  sting  and  its  claw. 

But  tame  are  these  terrors,  scarce  worthy  a  song, 

When  the  gay  little  Nightmare  comes  trotting  along. 

The  former  upon  us  may  feast,  and  devour  us, 
Consuming  the  blood  which  we  need  ourselves  — 

Tormenting,  and  rilling  with  pain-giving  poison 
The  veins  thus  bereft,  do  the  pilfering  elves. 

And  yet  seem  they  harmless,  with  tooth  and  with  prong, 

When  the  gay  little  Nightmare  comes  trotting  along. 

13 


Humorous  Poems 


The  one,  but  the  body  alone  can  demolish, 
Or  rob,  thus  enhancing  their  own  vital  store : 

But  the  other,  oh  woe  me,  maliciously  tramples, 

On  the  peace-craving  soul,  from  its  day-work,  yet  sore. 

And  weak  grows  the  spirit,  at  other  times  strong, 

When  the  gay  little  Nightmare  comes  trotting  along. 

It  feasts  on  the  things  which  should  stay  in  the  larder, 
Instead  of  o'erloading  our  stomach  at  night, 

And  thereby  inviting  this  greedy  intruder, 
To  cast  on  the  spirit,  its  emblems  of  fright, 

Increasing  the  image  of  every  wrong, 

When  the  gay  little  Nightmare  comes  trotting  along. 


WHEN  PAT   SET  FIRE  TO  THE   SLOUGH 

The  autumn  winds  blew  fierce  and  strong, 
The  marsh  was  dry,  the  grass  was  long, 

As  long  as  hemp,  I  do  avow : 
"  'Tis  dangerous,"  quoth  Pat,  "  indeed, 
A  firebreak,  I  sadly  need." 

So  he  set  fire  to  the  slough. 

The  hungry  flames  devoured  with  zeal, 
All  in  their  reach,  a  goodlyxieal. 

And  sweat  spread  o'er  his  honest  brow. 
They  leaped,  and  danced  in  fiendish  glee, 
Like  butterfly,  or  bumblebee, 

When  Pat  set  fire  to  the  slough. 

The  peat,  inflamed  like  pitch  and  tar, 
Is  hard  to  quench.     "  My  peace  to  mar," 
Cried  Pat,  surprised.     "This  beats  me  now." 
14 


Humorous  Poems 


His  hired  man,  with  spade  in  hand, 
He  called  to  help  him  quench  the  brand, 
Where  he  set  fire  to  the  slough. 

They  worked  with  might,  they  dug  and  scooped, 
Until  their  spirits  sadly  drooped, 

(So  neighbors  told  me  anyhow). 
The  drayman,  too,  Pat  did  employ, 
Who  poured  much  water  out  with  joy, 

Where  Pat  set  fire  to  the  slough. 

The  selfsame  neighbors  named  above 
(Malicious  chaps,  who  always  love 

Some  secret  sport),  they  did  allow : 

"  A  private  entrance  down  to  h 1 

Is  what  Pat  wants,  and  why  Pat  fell, 

To  set  that  fire  to  the  slough." 

They  also  said  (and  blamed  if  I 
The  truth  of  it  e'er  could  deny), 

That  those  who  claim  fate  did,  endow 
Them  with  such  gifts  as  ne'er  would  make 
The  smallest  blunder  or  mistake, 

They  will  set  fire  to  the  slough. 


Humorous  Poems 


TO  LUCULLUS 

'Tis  not  as  we  imagine, 

That  dress  makes  up  the  man ; 
'Tis  what  we  eat  and  what  we  drink, 

That  keeps  us  in  the  van. 
I  scorn  thy  flimsy  feathers, 

The  cause  of  all  thy  pride, 
But  praise  the  man,  who  will  and  can 

Such  follies  override. 

For  breakfast,  I  love  buckwheat, 

In  shape  of  pancakes  flat. 
They  give  us  luck,  with  foes  to  buck, 

From  landlord  down  to  gnat. 
I  gladly  look  upon  them  — 

The  sight  is  patience  wracking  — 
They  are  the  food  which  will  do  good, 

To  those  in  courage  lacking. 

Another  dish  I  relish, 

Far  less  in  every  sense, 
We  call  it  hash ;  it  rhymes  with  cash, 

And  goes  at  the  expense 
Of  often  harmless  people 

Who,  at  the  time,  not  near  — 
Re-hash,  if  called,  it  oft  appalled 

Man's  unprotected  ear. 

To  those  whose  spirits  ever, 
Are  boundless  in  their  zeal, 

I'd  recommend,  and  e'er  defend 
A  dish  of  jellied  veal. 
16 


Humorous  Poems 


The  calf,  remember,  mark  it, 

Did  furnish,  too,  the  hide 
In  which  are  bound,  books  wise,  profound, 

And  valued  far  and  wide. 

The  quail  is  for  the  stomach, 

What  coal  is  for  the  stove : 
It  makes  us  warm,  and  does  no  harm, 

Wherever  we  may  rove. 
Yet,  heed  my  earnest  warning 

Be  temperate,  ne'er  fail 
Your  vest  to  button,  friend,  be  no  glutton, 

Or  surely  thou  wilt  quail. 

The  ham,  well  cured  and  salted, 

(Salt  is  the  spice  of  life), 
Gives  young  and  old,  a  better  hold 

And  strength,  to  meet  earth's  strife. — 
I  cannot  help  a  thinking 

Of  one,  a  precious  twig, 
His  name  was  Ham,  whose  parent  stem, 

Was  drunk  once  like  a  pig. 

To  those  in  backbone  lacking, 

I  would  point  out  corn  starch, 
Inward  applied,  both  cooked  or  fried, 

T'will  aid  thy  onward  march. 
Externally,  'twill  also 

Increase  the  stiffening  trend  — 
Thy  upper  lip,  thy  cuffs  and  bib, 

Keep  ever  stiff,  my  friend. 

Eat  fish,  eat  fish,  my  brother, 

Of  every  size  and  kind, 
Thy  brain  will  grow,  and  overthrow 

Thy  flesh,  soon  left  behind. 


Humorous  Poems 


The  missing  link  which  monkeys 
To  men  so  proud  could  chain 

Lacks,  without  fail,  between  the  tail 
Of  apes,  and  human  brain. 

Of  all  the  fruits  delicious, 

The  grape  is  widely  known. 
I  mean  the  grape,  which  man  and  ape 

Pick  from  the  vine  alone. 
But  grape  lodged  in  a  cannon, 

Inspect,  my  friend,  with  care. 
Stand  e'er  behind,  and  bear  in  mind 

That  danger  lurks  in  there. 

The  egg,  when  fresh,  is  certain 

To  please  the  man  of  taste, 
But  when  half-hatched,  be  it  dispatched, 

Outdoors,  in  proper  haste. 
In  politics,  if  rotten, 

'Tis  used  on  thrall  and  prince, 
Its  argument  doth  e'er  present, 

A  force  sure  to  convince. 

A  bun  which,  disappearing 

Between  thy  lips,  doth  end, 
Bespeaks  a  mind  which  is  inclined 

The  good  and  sweet  to  blend. 
And  likewise,  puns  emerging 

From  out  between  thy  lips, 
Are  a  sure  sign,  thou  dost  not  pine 

Away,  for  want  of  squibs. 

Eat  salads,  man,  and  sauces, 
With  "gander  and  with  goose." 

Thy  appetite,  it  will  excite, — 
To  hold  or  to  let  loose. 
18 


Humorous  Poems 


An  empty  stomach  grumbles  — 
When  filled,  appeases  wrath  — 

Great  Lucullus,  ever  pull  us 
Onward  in  thy  path. 


POLITICS 

Contagious  like  the  measles, 

Inflaming  like  the  mumps, 
Is  ever-ready  Politics, 

When  it  upon  us  jumps. 
Its  hydra-heads,  don't  touch  them, 

For  fear  they  should  increase 
In  numbers  and  in  arguments, 

And  thus  disturb  your  peace. 

In  building  up  of  platforms, 

It  is  a  true  expert, 
And  if  a  plank  don't  fit  one  way, 

'Tis  easy  to  invert. 
Oft  planks  spiked  down  are  rotten, 

Fit  only  as  pretense, 
Yet  jugglers  walk  them  without  dread 

Nor  fear  the  consequence. 

In  Politics,  the  dollar 

Has  weight,  and  doth  convince, 
And  he  who  has  the  most  of  'em 

Needs  not  his  words  to  mince. 
They  influence  the  voter, 

As  light  the  gnats  doth  charm, 
Who,  in  their  suicidal  ways, 

Into  the  fire  swarm. 
19 


Humorous  Poems 


RETRIBUTION 

Often  man  doth  stoop  to  dig 
A  spacious  hole,  both  wide  and  big, 
Large  enough  to  hide  a  rig, 
And  conceals  it  with  a  twig : 

Hoping  that  some  fellow  fool 
In  his  natural  conceit, 
Advancing,  or  in  retreat, 

May  fall  into  this  slimy  pool 
To  be  picked,  or  fleeced,  or  flayed, 
While  he's  down,  surprised,  dismayed. 

But,  Fate's  whim  and  changing  mood 

Leads  the  fleecer  and  his  brood 

To  over-reach  in  zeal  their  aim 

And  thereby,  place  in  doubt  their  game. 

And  again  it  happens  that 
They  in  glee  perform  a  jig  — 
So  to  speak,  an  advance  "  swig" 

Do  they  draw  from  what  they're  at 
Ere  the  plunder  they  control  — 
And  fall  into  their  self -dug  hole. 


20 


Humorous  Poems 


A  WISE  CHICKEN 

One  day  a  chick  of  tender  age, 
Came  near  a  silly  parrot's  cage. 
Then  spake  the  parrot,  vain  and  wise, 
"I'll  be  a  bird  of  Paradise!" 

The  chick  replied,  with  cheerful  hum, 
"  My  modest  aim  is  Roosterdom, 
A  place  well  filled,  by  Fate  assigned, 
I  deem  a  lot  with  honor  lined." 


THE   SHREWDNESS   OF  DARWIN 

According  to  Darwin,  the  ape  is  the  sire 

From  whom  in  their  glory,  all  mankind  did  spring ; 

And  though  we  may  doubt,  we  are  bound  to  admire 
The  shrewdness  with  which  to  this  tenet  he'd  cling. 

For  the  ape  acts  quite  human,  and  man  is  a  monkey, 

Unless  he  is  wise,  or  a  blundering  donkey. 

The  way  we  are  dressing  is  simply  a  "  caution" 
(Whate'er  that  may  be,  I'm  somewhat  in  doubt), 

And  only  our  purses'  entire  exhaustion, 

Doth  keep  us  from  aping  the  greatest  "dude"  out. 

In  dress  and  in  manner,  we  strive  to  outshine 

The  ancestor  presumptive,  with  the  hair-covered  spine. 

A  leader  of  brains,  and  attainments  surpassing 
May  start  a  new  party,  abuses  to  mend, 

But  fails.     For  man's  bias,  his  vainness  caressing, 
Compels  him  his  aid  to  the  to  wicked  lend. 
21 


Humorous  Poems 


But  should,  through  a  trick,  the  reformer's  cause  grow, 
We  ape  the  successful,  and  follow  the  show. 

Even  Religion,  from  the  masking  intruder, 
Is  never  exempt,  nor  in  reverence  spared, 

Our  aping  propensity  is  the  deluder, 
Which  always  the  light-headed  rabble  ensnared. 

To  change  their  religion,  or  changing  their  coat, 

They  ever  are  prone,  if  it  keeps  them  afloat. 

And  society's  honors  to  the  weak  do  appeal, 

Even  more  than  the  bread  which  his  hunger  allays  — 

A  semblance  to  guard,  and  a  state  to  reveal, 
Which  ne'er  he  possessed,  is  the  aim  of  his  days. 

And  aping  the  real,  he  oft  overleaps 

The  bounds  in  which  Honor  its  votaries  keeps. 


PRINCE  LAGOBE 

Prince  Lagobe  of  Hongo-Bongo, 

In  the  wilds  of  Africa, 
Near  the  banks  of  ancient  Congo, 

Had  a  child,  fair  Unica. 

Strong  of  limb,  and  shining  like  a 

Polished-up  melodeon, 
She,  with  eyes  as  bright  as  mica, 

Held  among  the  maids  her  own. 

Said  Lagobe  the  parent,  winking : 

"  Celebrate,  I  must  and  will, 
Thy  birthday,  dear. —  Ah,  hear'st  the  clinking  ? 

Faith,  he's  fat,  he'll  fill  the  bill!" 

22 


Humorous  Poems 


And  forthwith,  a  fettered  victim, 
White  of  face,  and  fair  withal, 

Was  produced  by  guards  who  kicked  him, 
Onward  in  the  din  and  squall. 

Said  the  chief,  with  inward  chuckle : 
"  Honored  art  thou  to  be  stewed, 

Or  be  roasted,  thigh  and  knuckle, 
For  my  child's  with  taste  imbued." 

Quoth  the  stranger,  "Taste,  I  take  it, 
In  the  sense  thou  dost  betray, 

I'd  offend,  for,  boil  or  bake  it, 
Flesh  of  mine  is  foul  to-day. 

"  For  a  sudden  change  in  diet 
Which  I,  shipwrecked,  had  to  try, 

Left  me,  though  I  now  am  quiet, 
In  a  state  not  fit  to  fry. 

"  Yet  the  seed  of  the  great  onion 

Which  I  never  leave  behind, 
Will  reclaim,  while  in  my  dungeon, 

All  the  flavors  of  my  kind. 

"  Go  thou  hence,  and  plant  each  kernel, 
Cultivate  the  sproutings.     See  ? 

And  by  all  in  thee  infernal 

Thou  shalt  smack  thy  lips  at  me." 

It  was  done.     No  time  was  wasted, 
The  stranger's  relish  to  perfect, 

But  the  chief,  who  once  had  tasted 
Of  the  "tearplant,"  did  object. 
23 


Humorous  Poems 


Said  Lagobe :   "  Such  food  is  fitter, 
For  a  chieftain  of  my  fame  — 

And  with  you  I'll  feed  a  litter 

Of  young  panthers,  far  from  tame." 

Shrieked  the  maid,  "Oh  liquid  pumice! 

Even  if  he  flavor  lacks, 
To  my  taste,  a  living  groom  is 

Better  far  than  perfume  stacks." 

Said  Lagobe,  "  Child,  thou  art  silly, 
Yet,  since  I  the  tearplant  keep, 

Shalt  thou  too,  my  gay  young  filly, 
Have  the  morsel  in  thy  sweep." 

Spoke  aside  the  stranger,  sighing, 
"  From  the  pot  I  have  escaped, 

Yet  ordeals,  not  much  less  trying, 
Fate  for  me  has  doubtless  shaped." 

And  aloud :  "  Oh  chieftain,  nicely 
Did'st  thou  speak  and  too,  direct, 

And  your  words  fulfill  precisely 
What  I  hoped,  or  could  expect. 

"  Still,  more  tearplant  seeds  are  needed, 

For  the  seasons  yet  to  be. 
And  my  love,  who  for  me  pleaded, 

Shall,  Lagobe,  share  thine  with  J:hee. 

"  Till  I,  with  a  store  more  ample, 

Of  the  kernels,  thee  salute, 
Which  e'en  better  than  the  sample, 

Thou  shalt  own  without  dispute." 

24 


Humorous  Poems 


And  he  left.     None  e'er  detained  him, 
On  his  way,  no  longer  doomed  — 

But  Lagobe,  though  nothing  pained  him, 
Wept  as  if  by  grief  consumed. 

Wept,  I  say,  and  in  his  weeping, 

Joined  his  offspring,  steeped  in  brine. 

Both  had  gorged  themselves,  thus  keeping, 
The  tearplant's  rank  growth  in  confine. 


THE   DUDE 

For  reasons  well-founded  he's  wearing 

A  single  glass  over  one  eye, 
He  knows  one  is  more  than  sufficient 

His  thinker  with  food  to  supply. 

He  carries  a  cane  like  a  pencil, 
To  balance  himself  in  his  gait, 

To  steady  the  thoughts  which  he  harbors, 
Which  only  on  great  mortals  wait. 

He  rolls  up  the  rim  of  his  trousers 

As  a  sign  of  his  standing  'mongst  men ; 

And  calls  himself  "Chawley,"  or  "Billy," 
Or  " Jimmie,"  or  "Johnny,"  or  "Hen." 

And  when  he  is  dead  and  forgotten  — 
Alas !  facts  are  cruel  and  sad  — 

Another  e'en  more  self-sufficient 
To  the  mirth  of  the  living  doth  add. 

25 


Humorous  Poems 


THE   TACTICIAN 

Two  bad  little  boys  had  been  naughty, 
Had  offended  their  mother  one  day, 

Who  sent  them  to  bed  in  a  hurry 
To  punish  them  and  to  dismay. 

And  after  their  father's  home-coming 
She  told  him  her  woe  and  her  plight, 

And  forthwith  he  mounted  the  stairway 
The  boys'  tender  muscles  to  smite. 

Said  Willie,  "  Oh  papa  is  coming 
We'll  catch  it  now,  surely,  you  bet ! 

I'm  going  to  act  as  if  sleeping, 
And  he  may  postpone  and  forget." 

Said  Harry,  whose  insight  was  deeper, 
Who  knew  whom  he  could  not  delude, 

"  I'll  put  on  my  heaviest  drawers, 
And  dress  to  be  fit  for  the  feud." 


26 


EARLY    POEMS 


EVOLUTION 

A  stately  tree  may  meet  the  eye, 
With  spreading  boughs  which  testify 
That  health  and  strength  there  hidden  lie, 

Securely  sunk. 

The  worm  of  death  already  may 
Feed  on  its  marrow,  and  decay 
May  checkless  spread,  and  soon  convey 

To  dust,  its  trunk. 

When  youth  or  maid,  both  strong  and  fair, 
Doth  cross  thy  path,  and  seem  to  share 
Life's  grandest  gifts,  naught  will  compare 

With  their  good  cheer. 
Yet  oft  unseen  by  mortal  eye 
Destruction  may  already  hie 
To  swoop  down  on  them,  and  they  lie 

Upon  their  bier. 

The  stars  on  high,  whose  lustre  bright, 
Our  admiration  e'er  invite, 
Eternal  seeming  in  their  flight, 

Like  tree  and  man 

Will  perish  when  their  time  has  come 
Will  fall  to  dust,  and  fleet-like  scum  — 
To  Nature's  laws,  all  must  succumb : 

Such  is  God's  plan. 
27 


Early  Poems 


An  apprehension  of  our  mind 

To  creatures  born,  by  time  confined, 

Is  Death.    And  we,  shortsighted,  blind, 

Can't  penetrate 

The  past,  the  future,  nor  to-day : 
With  glaring  lights,  with  shadows  gray, 
Forever  changing,  often  gay, 

Then  grim  as  fate. 

An  endless  chain,  life  seems  to  be  — 

The  wheel  revolves,  a  mystery, 

To  which  none  found,  as  yet,  the  key. 

And  you  and  I, 

Each  with  a  link  I  should  compare, 
While  you  go  up,  I  downward  stare  — 
Death  follows  life  —  life  is  death's  heir  - 

As  time  doth  fly. 

And  He,  whose  hand  the  endless  chain, 
Forever  moves,  He  did  ordain 
That  in  each  atom,  life  should  reign, 

Without  an  end. 

And  "Death"  to  Him,  is  but  a  stade, 
A  term  to  show  that  His  handmaid, 
Kind  Nature,  changed  a  form  decayed 

To  forms  more  grand. 

Thus  it  appears  God's  plan  to  solve 
The  problem  "  Life  "  is  to  evolve 
All  forms  obscure,  and  to  revolve 

And  e'er  renew 

All  waning  shapes,  and  spirits  worn  — 
The  mystery  we  call  "new  born," 
A  higher  state,  each  to  adorn, 

And  live  anew. 

28 


Early  Poems 


THE  NATURE   OF   GOD 

The  nature  of  God,  ah,  a  solemn  discourse, 
Unfruitful,  perhaps,  yet  forever  the  source 
Of  musing  and  searching,  of  earnest  debate, 
Of  quarrels  unholy.     (Fanatics  estate.) 

The  paganish  notions,  unstable  and  crude, 
A  mixture  of  folly  and  reason  include ; 
The  Christian  doctrines,  advanced  and  refined 
Still  leave  quite  a  void  in  philosopher's  mind. 

But  alas,  we  are  human,  and  human  the  scale 
Which  we  in  delusion  and  arrogance  fail 
To  confine  to  such  matters  as  earth-born  man 
Can  weigh  in  his  reason  of  limited  span. 

The  nature  of  God?    Ah,  may  I  presume 
To  liken  God's  nature  to  sweetest  perfume, 
Which,  all-penetrating,  forever  doth  spread, 
The  living  embracing,  and  charming  the  dead  ? 

And  men  and  all  creatures  I'd  liken  to  ghosts, 
Who,  eager  for  fragrance,  throng  forward  in  hosts, 
The  strongest  in  spirit,  near  kindred  of  God, 
O'ertaking  the  thralldom  of  Mammon  and  Clod. 

All  generous  spirits,  whose  hands  never  missed 
In  kindness  united  the  weak  to  assist, 
Press  onward,  serenely,  with  God  in  their  view, 
And  followed  by  blessings,  find  surely  their  due. 
29 


Early  Poems 


The  stunted,  the  weaker,  who  cling  in  despair 
To  all  that  is  transient,  to  all  that  seems  fair, 
Are  hiding  in  darkness,  unwilling  to  heed 
The  voice  of  their  brothers,  and  often  recede. 

They  worship  their  treasures,  ill-gotten  and  vain, 
And  deeds  most  unselfish  invite  their  disdain. 
They  die,  but  remembered  by  heirs  who  regard 
The  process  with  pleasure,  although  they  die  hard. 

Meanwhile  the  great  fountain  of  love  and  of  life 
Pours  forth  his  sweet  odors,  ignoring  the  strife ; 
The  selfish  are  punished,  they  feel  their  own  rod  — 
Revenge  is  too  narrow,  too  human,  for  God. 


ON   OKOBOJI  LAKE 

On  the  deck  of  the  "Huntress,"  in  the  heat  of  July, 

Amid  all  the  beauties  of  water  and  sky, 

I  met  a  fair  maiden  of  azure  blue  eye. 

Her  form  rather  slight,  and  modest  her  air, 

I  remember  not  color  of  dress  nor  of  hair ; 

I  saw  her  eyes  only,  her  blue  eyes  so  fair. 

I  stared  at  her  breathless,  strained  every  sense ; 

Her  blue  eyes  enslaved  me,  I  meant  no  offense, 

And  tried  to  subdue  my  emotion  intense. 

But  in  vain.     Like  the  magnet  which  strives  for  the  pole, 

Like  the  pilgrim,  who  ceaselessly  follows  his  goal, 

So  followed  my  eyes  her,  my  eyes  and  my  soul. 

My  conduct  seemed  rude,  deserving  reproach, 

In  haste  I  turned  from  her  and  watched  the  approach 

Of  the  rippling  billows  which  rocked  our  coach. 


Early  Poems 


But  as  sure  as  the  sun  will  rise  in  the  east, 
And  Nature's  the  only,  and  truest  high-priest, 
As  sure  did  my  eyes  return  to  their  feast. 

Alas,  'twas  soon  over ;     She  returned  my  last  gaze ; 
My  trip  was  completed,  I  was  stunned  in  a  maze. 
I  stepped  from  the  deck.     To  the  end  of  my  days 
I'll  regret  that  this  romance,  so  short  and  so  brief, 
Thus  ended  so  fruitless,  and  deep-seated  grief 
Did  gnaw  at  my  heart  ever  since,  like  a  thief. 


PEACE   BORN  IN   STRIFE 

Hate  and  love,  antagonistic, 
Threaten  thee,  or  else  persuade, 

And  other  forces,  plain  or  mystic, 
Cause  thee  to  gain  or  retrograde 

In  mental  worth,  in  strength  of  soul, 

And  in  the  realm  where  gain's  the  goal. 

Thy  peace  of  mind,  by  hate  afflicted, 
From  envious  persecution  sore. 

Abused  by  clamor,  unrestricted, 
And  judged  by  scoffers  who  adore 

Naught  else  but  self,  will  sorely  grieve 

And  cause  thy  breast  in  pain  to  heave. 

Hence,  if  thy  aim  is  peace  unbroken, 
If  from  passions  thou  wouldst  flee, 

If  of  strife  the  smallest  token 

Pains  thy  heart  and  saddens  thee, 

Then  retreat  from  where  man  liveth ; 

Solitude  e'er  solace  giveth. 


Early  Poems 


But  wouldst,  Oh  mortal,  nurse  and  cherish 

Character  and  virtues  high, 
Which  unresisted  melt  and  perish 

Like  snowflakes  'neath  Sahara's  sky, 
Then  face  the  world  with  all  its  troubles, 
Its  envy,  hate,  ambition's  bubbles. 

For  little  credit  is  reflected 

On  virtue  from  temptations  free, 

And  your  peace  thus  gained,  affected, 
Is  but  a  truce,  not  bound  to  thee, 

But  worth,  sustained  in  righteous  strife, 

Distinction  gives  to  humblest  life. 


WHENEVER 

Whenever  I  a  seed  perceive, 

Which,  sprouting,  in  its  time  doth  weave 

The  ripened  fruit  for  us  to  cleave, 

I  feel  that  much  I  should  retrieve ; 

Whenever  I  a  seed  perceive. 

Whenever  I  a  blossom  see 
It  animates  and  rouses  me, 
Dispells  my  aimless  reverie 
And  fills  my  soul  with  melody ; 
Whenever  I  a  blossom  see. 

Whenever  I  a  fruit  espy, 
Well  matured,  the  battle  cry 
Seems  quite  natural  and  nigh ; 
"All's  a  fruiting,  why  not  I?" 
Whenever  I  a  fruit  espy. 
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Early  Poems 


Whenever  I  a  grave  survey, 
It  checks  my  spirit  in  its  sway, 
And  mutely  preaches,  "  All  is  clay ; 
You've  come  to  dwell  here,  not  to  stay;" 
Whenever  I  a  grave  survey. 

Whenever  I  discouraged  feel, 
I  seek  for  solitude,  and  kneel 
And  pray  to  Him,  the  only  real, 
The  truest  friend  in  woe  and  weal, 
Whenever  I  discouraged  feel. 


A  SONG  FOR  AMERICANS  WHO  ARE  IN  FOREIGN 
COUNTRIES 

Why  do  we  love  and  why  revere 
The  hills,  the  dales,  the  atmosphere, 

The  holy  ground, 

Where  our  childhood's  cradle  stood, 
Where  youthful  hearts,  and  cheerful  mood 

E'er  did  abound  ? 

Why  do  we  languish  for  a  rest 
On  native  soil,  and  manifest 

A  warm  emotion 

To  breathe  the  air,  as  oft  of  yore, 
Beneath  the  spreading  sycamore, 

In  complete  devotion  ? 

Why  do  our  hopes  and  wishes  blend, 
When  laud  we  hear  and  comprehend 
That  our  home 

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Early  Poems 


Has  gained  distinction  and  esteem, 
Has  risen  high,  as  only  cream 
Doth  reach  worth's  dome  ? 

Why  does  a  flash  of  pleasure  thrill 
Through  bone  and  marrow,  and  refill 

Our  wasting  frame 
With  delight,  with  hope  and  cheer, 
Whene'er  the  stars  and  stripes  appear 

In  Freedom's  name  ? 

Why  does  death  not  terrify 
Those  who  to  thy  rescue  fly, 

Oh  Fatherland? 
When  enemies  thy  strand  assail, 
'Mid  murky  clouds,  and  springtide  wail, 

Why  do  they  firmly  stand  ? 

Why  does  the  water  downward  flow, 
Why  does  the  sun  not  freeze  the  snow  ? 

And  why,  Ah,  why, 
Yes,  why  does  God  a  love  implant 
Which  finds  us  hopeful,  militant, 

Until  we  die  ? 


GOD  AND  HIS  CREATURES 

Man: 

I  am  the  proud  master  of  all  in  my  reach ; 
My  sway,  unconfined,  none  dares  to  impeach ; 

My  rights  are  firm  rooted,  o'er  the  sea  and  the  land; 
The  beast  in  the  field,  and  the  fish  in  the  ocean, 
Await  my  command.     If  such  is  my  notion, 
All  may  I  destroy  with  my  far-reaching  hand. 
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Early  Poems 


God: 

Not  so.     Thou  proud  mortal,  thy  claims  I  refuse ; 
Thou  shalt  give  account  for  each  wrong  and  abuse 

Of  creatures  less  gifted,  but  truer;   I  see, 
Not  master,  but  servant,  born  helpless  and  nude 
Thou  hast  little  reason  for  boasting  so  rude, 

For  all  thy  possessions,  Earth  loaned  them  to  thee. 

Man: 

At  least,  O  my  Lord,  the  fields  which  I  own, 

For  which  I  have  paid,  which  I  tilled  and  have  sown, 

Are  mine  undisputed,  forever  to  keep  — 
For  thou  seest,  O  Lord,  I  must  eat  and  must  dress, 
And  my  wants  are  increasing,  while  time  doth  progress, 

Excusing  desires  to  garner  and  reap. 

God: 

Alas,  my  poor  creature,  ill  placed  is  thy  trust, 
In  riches  e'er  fleeting.     Thy  health  now  robust 

May  fall  a  swift  prey  to  the  germs  of  disease, 
And  all  thy  possessions,  which  now  are  thy  pride 
Will  fail  thee,  when  Death,  with  impetuous  stride 

Advances,  proclaiming  thy  final  release. 

Man: 

O  Lord,  I  am  humbled,  I  see  my  grave  fault, 
I've  little,  ah,  little,  myself  to  exalt 

O'er  the  beast  of  the  field,  or  the  bird  in  the  air; 
Yet  have  I  a  body  distinguished  for  grace, 
Which  doubtless  is  mine  for  the  limited  space 

Allotted  to  me  in  this  world  full  of  care. 

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Early  Poems 


God: 

Error,  delusion.     Again  thou  art  wrong; 
Microbes  now  infesting  thy  body  so  strong, 

Have  claims  better  founded  to  own  their  abode, 
No  palpable  riches,  no  visible  wealth, 
Not  even  thy  body,  much  less  thy  fair  health, 

Canst  Mortal,  retain.     Time  all  doth  corrode. 

Man: 

Oh  pity,  me  Lord!     Of  all  I'm  deprived; 

My  delusion  has  left  me,  while  fears  have  arrived ; 

All  toil  and  all  labors  are  vain,  I  despond. 
The  beast  of  less  reason,  the  flowers  which  bloom, 
Look  forward  e'er  hopeful,  not  knowing  their  doom, 

While  I,  thy  first  child,  feel  the  weight  of  my  bond. 


God: 

Despair  not,  my  darling,  I've  placed  near  thy  hand 
Inexhaustible  treasures,  which  Time  will  withstand ; 

They  are  virtue  and  kindness  to  the  weak  and  the  poor, 
Not  words,  empty  words,  but  thy  works  and  thy  deeds 
Are  a  passport  to  me  when  death  supersedes 

Thy  bubble  of  wealth  and  vain  glory  obscure. 

The  ablest  of  mankind,  the  noblest  and  best, 
I  have  placed  in  the  lead,  with  vice  to  contest. 

Those  less  penetrating,  less  skillful  and  wise, 
Including  the  masses  who  labor  for  gain, 
I  have  placed  in  positions  where  the  humble  and  plain 

Can  garner  up  treasures  which  death  ne'er  defies. 


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Early  Poems 


VIRTUE 

Virtue,  'tis  virtue,  which  all  of  us  cherish, 
Whenever  we  find  it,  in  young  or  in  old. 

The  charms  of  our  body  will  fade  and  will  perish, 
But  virtue  its  beauty  forever  will  hold. 

Without  it,  our  lives  would  few  pleasures  possess, 

For  virtue  is  the  fountain  of  happiness. 

The  heroes  who  bravely,  with  praiseworthy^  mettle, 
From  the  primitive  times  to  this  hour  to-day, 

Their  disputes  with  sword  and  with  war  ax  did  settle, 
Or  like  the  old  bards,  by  chanting  their  lay  — 

They  all  were  in  league  with  virtue,  yes  all, 

For  virtue  gives  strength,  but  will  never  enthrall. 

Without  it,  the  state  and  the  churches  would  tremble, 
For  it  is  the  pillar  on  which  they  all  rest. 

Remove  not  this  stay,  but  let  us  assemble, 
And  pray  to  its  Sender,  that  virtue  be  blessed 

With  success  even  greater  than  heretofore  seen 

And  that  vice  and  all  evil  depart  from  its  sheen. 

Virtue  opposes  the  mean  and  the  narrow, 
And  provides  for  our  mind,  an  oasis  to  rest. 

But  vice  begets  sickness  of  flesh  and  of  marrow, 
And  stunts  our  spirit  with  relish  and  zest. 

Virtue  invites  us  to  earn  a  bright  crown, 

While  vice  on  the  good  and  exalted  doth  frown. 


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Early  Poems 


THE  WIND 

Unsteady  in  habits,  and  given  to  freaks, 

I  roam  o'er  the  valleys  and  high  mountain  peaks. 

I  float  in  the  air,  impartial  and  fair, 

O'er  the  homes  of  the  nabob,  and  children  of  care. 

I  dispel  the  foul  odors  which  rise  from  the  earth, 

And  thereby  diminish  both  sickness  and  dearth. 

I  refresh  both  the  strong,  the  weak,  and  unstaid, 
And  fan  the  fair  cheeks  of  the  golden-haired  maid, 
Who  thinks  of  her  lover,  to  whom  I  waft, 
Her  ardent  good  wishes,  with  Cupid's  shaft  — 
I  blow  without  ceasing  o'er  land  and  sea, 
From  the  time  of  creation  to  eternity. 

My  husband,  the  storm,  so  mighty  and  strong, 
Sleeps  often,  while  I  regret  the  wrong, 
Which  he,  in  his  rage  and  checkless  power, 
Has  wreaked  upon  man  in  his  waking  hour. 
The  mightiest  ships  in  his  hands  are  toys, 
Whene'er  he  a  playful  mood  enjoys. 

My  oldest  two  sons,  Tornado,  Cyclone, 
Are  the  terror  of  the  living  in  every  zone. 
They  toy  not,  they  play  not,  they  only  destroy, 
They  hear  to  no  prayers,  no  mercy  employ. 
They  wreck  and  demolish  in  terrible  rage, 
And  spare  neither  merit  nor  sex  nor  age. 

Boreas,  my  third-born,  although  not  my  last, 
Is  a  boy  of  grim  habits,  and  ruthless  his  blast. 
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Early  Poems 


His  garments  of  sleet  and  snow  defy  — 
His  breath  is  chilling,  and  fierce  his  cry. 
He  comes  from  his  castle,  his  arctic  home, 
When  Nature  is  sleeping,  with  us  to  roam. 

The  pride  of  his  mother,  my  tenderest  child, 
Is  Zephyrus,  my  youngest,  whose  breath  so  mild 
Kisses,  caresses,  and  softly  entwines, 
The  rich  and  the  needy,  and  him  who  repines. 
His  presence  is  life,  for  death  must  flee 
From  a  being  as  gentle  and  charming  as  he. 


LIFE  IS  A  STREAM 

Life  is  a  stream, 

And  streams  harbor  life. 
Both  flow  swiftly, 

In  ceaseless  strife. 

Both  begin  humble 
And  swell  to  a  stream. 

Both  have  their  breakers, 
Their  shade,  and  their  gleam. 

Life,  like  streams, 
Should  be  dammed  in 

By  moral  influence 
To  keep  us  from  sin. 

Streams  dry  up, 

And  life  turns  to  woe, 
If  the  nourishing  fountain 

Is  stopped  in  its  flow. 
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Early  Poems 


Life,  like  streams, 

Should  be  pure  and  clean. 
Or  the  fish  and  our  virtue, 

Will  die  in  Death's  seine. 


Life,  like  streams, 

It  is  a  sad  fact, 
Is  often  disturbed 

By  vice's  cataract. 

Streams  have  sand, 
And  so  should  we. 

Life,  like  the  Jordan, 
Flows  to  the  Dead  Sea. 


BE  YE  READY 

Life  is  short,  thou  may'st  be  dead 

E'er  to-morrow's  sun  has  fled, 

Therefore  keep,  yes,  keep  an  eye 

On  the  goal  beyond  the  sky. 

Never  swerve,  but  listen,  hark, 

Aim  high  enough,  aim  at  worth's  mark. 

Let  your  standard  be  sublime  — 
Live  up  to  it,  every  time, 
Like  Ulysses,  pass  the  isle ; 
If  the  sirens  thee  beguile, 
Fill  your  ears  with  wax  a  span, 
Steer  ahead  and  be  a  man. 
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Early  Poems 


A  pilgrim  in  this  world  thou  art, 

Not  to  stay,  but  to  depart, 

Do  the  right,  "first,  last,  and  ever." 

Listen  not,  oh  listen  never 

To  the  tempter,  who  in  snares, 

Leads  and  lures  you  unawares. 

Whate'er  thou  doest,  do  it  well, 
'Tis  the  kernel,  not  the  shell, 
Which  the  Judge  of  judges  will 
Probe  and  weigh,  and  then  distil, 
From  the  wealth  thy  soul  contains 
All  the  dross  and  other  stains. 


THE  FATE   OF  ALL   CREATION 

Slow  are  the  powers,  and  slow  the  force, 

Which  Nature's  transient  works  secure; 
But  swiftly  flows  destruction's  course, 
Unceasing,  and  without  remorse, 
Despoils  all  things  ere  they  mature. 

A  hundred  ants  in  patience  toil 

Exerting  all  their  strength  and  power, 
To  build  their  home  within  the  soil  — 
A  trampling  foe  has  come  to  spoil 
Their  work,  this  very  hour. 

"A  thousand  dewdrops,  heaven's  tears," 

Were  needed  to  sustain  the  rose, 
Before  the  fragrant  bloom  appears, 
Which,  when  mature,  us  ever  cheers, 
And  charms  us  to  repose. 


Early  Poems 


Anxiety  and  parents'  hope, 

With  cares  and  doubtings  mingled, 
Have  reared  you  gently,  now  to  cope 
With  cruel  fate,  on  downward  slope  — 

For  death  hath  thee  outsingled. 

The  works  of  man,  so  vast  in  cost, 

Are  sharing  all  the  same  sad  fate. 
Our  energies  we  do  exhaust  — 
The  work  is  done,  but  quicker  lost, 
To  the  destroyer's  lasting  hate. 

Therefore,  depend  not  on  this  life, 

Look  higher  up  with  your  mind's  eye. 
Fight  bravely  in  this  earthly  strife  — 
When  full  of  years  with  trials  rife, 
Then  fear  thou  not,  but  look  on  high. 


FOR  A  HARVEST  FESTIVAL 

To-night  we  assemble,  and  without  a  preamble, 
We  offer  up  thanks,  with  hearts  most  sincere, 

To  Him,  who  in  kindness,  though  fierce  winds  may  ramble, 
Provides  for  all  creatures  upon  our  sphere. 

Grateful  for  boons  of  the  past,  we  prepare 

To  add  supplications  for  our  future  welfare. 

Manifold  harvests  are  ripening  ever, 

Each  at  its  period  in  the  ocean  of  time. 
Therefore  behooves  it  the  thoughtful  and  clever, 

Always  to  join  in  a  thanksgiving  chime. 
Not  bound  to  the  seasons,  which  go  and  return, 
Are  the  fruitbearing  moments  in  our  sojourn. 

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Early  Poems 


The  farmer,  whose  diligence  never  is  sleeping, 
Carefully  husbands  the  crops  of  the  field, 

Shelters  his  cattle  against  the  storm's  sweeping, 
And  gathers,  rejoicing,  his  labor's  rich  yield. 

He  harvests,  like  others,  but  what  he  has  sown, 

And  gains  by  hard  labor  what  fain  he  would  own. 

The  preacher  has  chances  to  see  more  disaster, 
Than  anyone  else,  save  the  doctor  alone, 

Trying  to  follow  the  steps  of  the  Master, 
He  laughs  with  the  cheerful,  and  shares  in  their  moan. 

The  harvest  he  gathers  is  gratitude  chiefly  — 

Not  riches  to  boast  of  (I  mention  it  briefly). 

The  doctor,  though  ample  are  often  his  earnings, 
Risks  daily  his  health  in  his  calling  severe, 

But  only  success  rewards  his  heart's  yearnings, 
Not  lucre  alone,  which  naught  can  endear. 

He  shortens  his  own  life,  and  lengthens  his  brother's 

And  gives  his  best  council  unstinted  to  others. 

The  teacher  conscientiously  watching  and  caring, 
Nursing  each  germ  in  the  mind  immature, 

Reaps  his  reward  when  his  pupils  are  sharing 
In  all  that  he  garnered  and  stored  up  secure. 

And  other  rewards,  to  him  useful  and  needed, 

Truly  earned  he,  who  his  case  nobly  pleaded. 

The  laborer,  lawyer,  the  merchant,  and  banker, 
Each  gathers  two  harvests,  most  unlike  in  worth ; 

And  those  who  in  greed  for  the  one  ever  hanker, 

Find  oft,  at  life's  ending,  not  wealth,  but  mere  dearth. 

The  one  is  but  useful  in  limited  measure, 

The  other  a  jewel  —  a  most  priceless  treasure. 

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Early  Poems 


The  children  have  harvests  in  games  they  are  playing, 
The  joy  they  are  reaping  is  well  worth  the  while ; 

And  parents,  who  watch  them,  are  plainly  betraying, 
They,  too,  have  a  harvest  in  every  smile. 

For  sowing  and  reaping,  in  endless  career 

Is  the  task  of  the  living,  beneath  the  stars  here 

Death  alone  gathers  unceasing,  forever, 
His  sickle  ne'er  rests,  while  the  hourglass'  sands 

Are  measuring  time,  and  its  keen  cut  doth  sever 
The  lifethread  unfailing,  with  tireless  hands. 

His  harvest  proceeds,  while  we  mortals  are  sowing, 

Nor  slackens  in  vigor,  when  mankind  is  mowing. 

Yet  clearly  we  see  we  have  cause  to  exult, 
For  the  prince  of  all  reapers  e'en  cannot  deprive 

Us  of  the  last  harvest  which  child  or  adult 
Has  chances  to  reap,  and  to  store  in  mind's  hive. 

E'en  should  of  both  harvests,  the  lesser  us  fail, 

We've  reasons  for  gladness,  and  naught  to  bewail. 

We  therefore,  if  fair  or  foul  be  the  weather, 
Should  join  in  a  silent,  yet  deeply  felt  prayer ; 

And  all  the  great  blessings,  which  field  and  which  heather 
Brought  forth,  we  are  willing  with  others  to  share. 

May,  in  the  near  future,  with  fostering  hand, 

The  Lord  of  creation  His  blessings  expand. 


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Early  Poems 


THE   BEST   REMEDY 

Should  gloom  thy  soul  entwine, 

Oh  man  of  care! 

Remember  e'er 
That  he  who  doth  repine 

A  burden  is,  and  not  a  stay, 

A  fragile  twig,  which  breaks  away, 
From  duty's  holy  shrine. 

Bestir  thyself  and  seek 

For  such  as  are 

In  need.     Debar, 
Lamenting,  selfish,  weak  — 

In  active  love,  and  deeds  of  aid 

Thou  wilt  build  up  a  palisade. 
Against  disaster's  shriek. 

The  balsam  which  thy  hand 

With  care  doth  spread 

On  wounds  which  bled, 
Its  healing  will  expand, 

Until  thy  own  sore  soul  it  heals, 

Unknown  to  thee.     God  oft  reveals 
Therein  his  gracious  hand. 


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Early  Poems 


A  FOREST  IDYL 

In  a  primeval  Iowa  forest 

I  once  knew  a  charming  Idyl, 
Where  the  deer  and  the  squirrels  were  roaming, 

And  the  brooklets  are  murmuring  still ; 
Where  the  trees  bent  their  crowns  to  listen 

To  the  chant  of  the  whip-poor-will. 

I  remember  the  ferns  and  the  lilies, 
And  the  May-apple  too,  and  the  smell 

Of  the  fragrant  and  beautiful  flowers, 
A  blooming,  perfuming  the  dell, 

And  the  pond  where  the  ducks  were  a  fishing  — 
I  surely  remember  it  well. 

I  see  a  disciple  Diana's 

Advancing  in  the  break ; 
I  see  the  glistening  glimmer 

Of  a  weird  enchanted  lake ; 
I  see  a  rabbit  entangled 

In  the  coils  of  a  rattlesnake. 

I  see  the  beautiful  linden 

With  its  blossoms  hazy  and  sweet, 

And  the  king  of  the  woodlands  so  stately, 
The  Oak,  in  its  grandeur  I  meet, 

And  violets  nodding  and  napping 
And  winking  most  discreet. 

Alas,  for  the  charms  of  nature 
Gave  way  to  human  greed, 
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Early  Poems 


For  the  beautiful  forest  primeval 
Was  destroyed  with  root  and  seed ; 

And  sadly  the  murmuring  brooklets, 
Are  flowing  through  the  reed. 


THE  COSMOPOLITAN 

Be  not  selfish,  narrow, 

In  your  views  of  life. 
Be  no  cit  nor  censor 

In  your  earthly  strife. 

Do  not  call  attention 
To  your  neighbor's  faults : 

While  your  own  dear  hobby, 
Leads  you  in  a  waltz. 

Bear  in  mind,  remember, 
That  gold  is  found  in  dust, 

That  oft  the  sweetest  honey 
Has  poison  in  its  crust. 

If  others  from  you  differ 

In  politics  or  creed, 
Then  use  your  broadest  standard 

To  weigh  each  word  and  deed. 

There  is  no  being  so  humble, 
So  unimportant,  small, 

Which  has  no  flowing  fountain 
Of  something  good,  at  all. 

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Early  Poems 


The  sun,  the  grand  life-giver, 
Is  small  compared  with  God, 

Who  made  the  worm  that's  creeping, 
Beneath  the  crumbling  sod. 

Be  therefore  broad  and  gentle, 

In  judging  fellow  man; 
Be  one  of  Nature's  nobles  — 

A  cosmopolitan. 


I'VE   SEEN  THEM  BLOOM  AND  FADE 

I've  seen  them  bloom  and  fade, 
The  rose  and  charming  maid, 

Both  in  their  prime, 
While  those  who  modest  in  their  aim 
Discretely  rose,  and  overcame 

All  blights  of  tide  and  time. 

I  loved  them  both  too  well, 
A  slave  to  beauty's  spell ; 

Yet  one  sad  thing 
Remains,  although  I've  long  forgot 
The  fragrance  sweet,  which  they'd  allot  — 

'Tis  their  sharp  thorny  sting. 

I've  watched  with  zeal,  and  found 
Fair  maids  who  never  frowned 

With  pride  and  scorn. 
I've  found  a  vine,  whose  bloom  and  fruit 
Impressively  and  strong,  yet  mute, 

Proclaimed  its  worth  inborn. 
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Early  Poems 


I've  often  in  my  day 
Seen  worth  in  scant  array, 

While  worthlessness 
In  splendor  dwelt,  in  borrowed  guise, 
A  sham,  a  mockery,  a  prize, 

Of  transitoriness. 

The  triumphs  of  conceit 
Are  short  and  incomplete. 

To  fill  this  gap, 
Worth  will  force  aside  distrust, 
Will  melt  or  break  suspicion's  crust, 

And  fall  in  honor's  lap. 


A   DELUSION 

Go,  tell  me  not  that  friendship 

E'er  did  in  truth  exist 
Between  a  male  and  female  — 

I  pray  you,  silence,  whist! 
'Tis  naught  but  a  delusion 

Dispelled  soon  like  a  mist. 

The  ties  which  bind  together 
The  sexes  firm  and  strong, 

Did  differ  e'er  from  friendship 
As  color  doth  from  song, 

As  truth  from  virtue  differs, 
And  wise  men  do  from  strong. 

The  all-embracing  forces, 
The  only  true  cement, 
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Early  Poems 


Which  binds  to  willing  thralldom 
Its  victims,  most  content 

Is  love,  the  great  life  giver, 
Life's  safest  battlement. 


A  RAINY  DAY 

Mist  and  clouds  of  kindred  sway, 
See  the  sisters  in  array ; 

Moisture  pregnant  o'er  us  hover. 
The  sun  their  sire  and  their  stay 
Has  veiled  his  face,  and  cloudlets  gay 

Entwine  the  mist,  their  truest  lover. 

Then  the  Master,  high,  supreme, 
In  wisdom  leads  an  arctic  stream 

From  his  spacious  northern  cooler ; 
The  winds,  the  trusty  servants,  stream, 
The  azure  mortar's  edges  gleam, 

Obedient  to  the  highest  ruler. 

The  thunder  rolls  "the  voice  of  God"— 
(Bow  low,  ye  mortal  sons  of  clod, 

His  name  ye  ever  shalt  revere.) 
His  lightning  steed,  with  fire  shod 
Awaits  his  order  and  his  nod, 

And  terror  shakes  the  atmosphere. 

Butlo!    The  wonder!     See  the  rain! 
The  clouds  condensed,  as  liquid,  strain 

And  slowly  settle  on  the  sod ; 
Refreshing  blossom,  root,  and  grain  — 
A  valued  boon  in  man's  domain  — 

One  of  the  num'rous  gifts  of  God. 


Early  Poems 


The  sun  again  shines  forth  serene, 
Dispels  the  transient  misty  screen, 

The  rainbow  then,  the  gorgeous  arch 
Of  covenant,  in  splendor's  sheen 
Spans  hills  and  dales  and  brooks  between, 

And  life  triumphs  in  onward  march. 


FAME  AND  LOVE 

Heroes  famed  for  mental  power 
In  the  realm  of  art  and  letters  — 

Heroes,  strong  and  fair,  the  flower 
Of  all  times,  who  broke  their  fetters ; 

All  conquerors.     But  like  a  tower 

Looms  up  love,  which  has  no  betters. 

Fame,  when  dead,  is  good  enough, 

But  while  I  live,  oh  give  me  love. 

Brutal  men,  distinction  seeking 
(Fame  thus  gained  is  but  a  crime), 

Slaughtered  countless  fellows,  reeking 
From  the  blood  of  victims  prime. 

But  Love  (in  terms  of  reverence  speaking) 
Has  conquered  hate,  oh  many  a  time. 

Fame,  when  dead,  is  good  enough, 

But  while  I  live,  oh  give  me  love. 

Mighty  kingdoms,  oft  erected 
By  the  sword  in  ruthless  hand, 

Long  have  crumbled,  and  dejected, 
We  musing  o'er  the  ruins  stand. 


Early  Poems 


However,  love  with  truth  connected, 

Doth  immortality  command. 
Fame,  when  dead,  is  good  enough, 
But  while  I  live,  oh  give  me  love. 

Lasting  fame  must  have  m  ore  merit 
Than  selfish  aims  and  brutal  force. 

And  the  estates  which  we  inherit, 
None  can  retain  by  nature's  course. 

Yet  all  invites  you,  if  you  dare  it, 
You'll  rule  in  life  through  love,  its  source. 

Fame,  when  dead,  is  good  enough, 

But  while  I  live,  oh  give  me  love. 


PEACE 

Life's  tumults  and  struggles  trying, 
Have  their  charms  and  their  delight. 

Battlefields,  and  pennants  flying, 
E'er  the  petulant  excite. 

But  the  wise  and  good  agree 

" Peace's  the  best  in  life  for  me!" 

Fierce  contention  ever  rages ; 

Love  of  gold  and  gain  unite, 
And  ambition  in  all  ages 

Missed  its  aim,  and  did  invite 
Criticism  stern  and  free ; 
"Peace's  the  best  in  life  for  me." 

Passions,  too,  like  fire  burning, 
Find  their  way  into  each  heart. 

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Early  Poems 


And  selfishness,  us  onward  spurning, 

Kills  our  joys  like  poisoned  dart, 
From  which  the  wise  in  haste  should  flee ; 
" Peace's  the  best  in  life  for  me." 

Fame  and  riches,  e'er  decoying, 

Guide  our  steps  from  peace  and  rest, 

While  the  modest  are  enjoying 
Contentedness,  forever  blessed. 

The  rich  and  great  die  hard,  we  see  — 

"Peace's  the  best  in  life  for  me." 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  FOREST 

A  wondrous  flower,  fair  and  sweet, 

I  found  one  day,  a  blooming. 
'Twas  near  the  seam  where  woodlands  meet, 

The  rivulet  e'er  fuming ; 
The  rivulet  whose  waters  fleet 

Skip  onward  laughing,  booming. 

The  sun  shone  bright,  each  shady  nook, 

Did  wink  to  rest  inviting, 
And  shadows  of  fantastic  crook, 

E'er  parting  and  uniting, 
As  it  would  please  the  wind,  that  shook 

The  leaves,  in  play  delighting. 

Of  universal  brotherhood 

Aware,  and  of  life's  weaving, 
Which  constantly  goes  on,  I  stood 

A  sighing,  faintly  heaving, 
With  yearnings  for  all  that  is  good 

My  heart  was  fairly  cleaving. 
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Earlv  Poems 


The  murmurings  which  overhead 
Ne'er  ceased  their  coaxing,  suing, 

Their  influence  o'er  me  did  spread, 
Old  memories  renewing, 

And  sitting  down,  I  spun  a  thread, 
All  thoughts  of  time  eschewing. 

The  sorcerers  both,  Sleep  and  Dream, 
Soon  over  me  came  stealing ; 

And  still  I  spun  the  selfsame  theme 
My  constant  thoughts  revealing, 

My  thoughts  of  her  whom  I  esteem 
A  fay  of  love  and  healing. 

I  dreamed  of  her!    All-mother  kind, 
Sweet  Nature,  ever  laving, 

All  wounded  hearts,  in  balm  refined 
When  faint  with  longing,  craving. 

And  she,  who  softly  me  entwined, 
My  road  to  joy  was  paving. 

Half  dreaming,  when  a  sudden  chill 
All  over  me  came  creeping, 

And,  looking  up,  a  horror  thrill 
Spread  o'er  me,  fast  and  sweeping, 

A  rattlesnake  with  fiendish  skill 
His  coils  prepared  for  leaping. 

When  suddenly  a  voice  spoke  out, 
In  accents  low  and  charming, 

"  I  pray,  sit  still,  and  I  will  rout 
This  monster,  thee  alarming." 

The  wondrous  voice,  so  sweet,  devout, 
Dispelled  all  fears  a  swarming. 

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Early  Poems 


Then  swift  as  light,  a  scarf  unrolled 
Flew,  on  the  snake  descending. 

And  rising  up,  I  did  behold 
A  maid,  who,  me  defending, 

Had  beauty  rare,  which  did  unfold 
A  sight  with  heaven  blending. 

Her  light-brown  hair,  so  rich  and  fair, 

As  fine  as  silk,  and  glist'ing, 
Like  morning  dew,  it  could  ensnare 

The  coolest  man  existing. 
And  O,  her  lips,  like  rosebuds  rare, 

Charmed  me  beyond  resisting. 

Her  modest  eye  she  downward  cast, 

My  searching  gaze  evading, 
And  still  my  eyes  their  sweet  repast 

Continued,  me  persuading 
That  toil  for  her  'mid  chilling  blast 

Would  ne'er  be  mean,  degrading. 

Her  rounded  form,  erect,  yet  slight, 

Her  virgin  age  disclosing, 
Beamed  forth  in  health  and  virtue's  light 

Bewitching  and  imposing ; 
'Twas  clear  to  me  she  could  requite 

All  trust  in  her  reposing. 

Entranced  I  stood.    The  rattlesnake, 
Meantime  his  bondage  breaking, 

Escaped  in  haste.    Though  wide  awake, 
My  mind  was  time  forsaking. 

At  last  I  broke  the  spell,  to  shake 
With  thanks  her  hand  now  quaking. 
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Early  Poems 


Sweet  barefoot  child!    A  crimson  wave 

Rose  up,  her  fair  face  tinting 
With  rarest  hues.  Ne'er  did  engrave, 

Or  paint,  a  hand  imprinting, 
Such  charms  as  these,  my  soul  did  crave ; 

"  O  God!    This  is  thy  minting! " 

I  felt  a  thrill,  her  finger  tips, 

A  current  were  discharging. 
I  saw  her  blush,  I  saw  her  lips 

Grow  pale  'neath  passions  charging. 
No  maiden's  charms  could  hers  eclipse  — 

I'm  surely  not  enlarging. 

She  bowed  her  head,  I  did  the  same ; 

My  senses  all  were  swimming : 
My  cheek  touched  hers,  my  passion's  flame 

With  ecstasy  was  brimming. 
I  kissed  her  lips  —  who  would  me  blame 

For  such  a  nectar  skimming  ? 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  "my  Grandpa  sure 

My  coming  is  expecting." 
She  swiftly  tore  her  form  so  pure 

From  my  embrace,  neglecting 
The  scarf,  her  headgear,  to  procure, 

Now  in  my  eyes  reflecting. 

With  scarf  in  hand,  her  path  I  traced, 
My  raptured  thoughts  recruting; 

Ne'er  mortal  man  a  fairy  chased 
(Whose  buoyant  gait  refuting 

The  thought  that  she  by  flesh  embraced) 
More  fit  for  Love's  saluting. 
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Early  Poems 


Soon  did  my  searching  eye  discern 

A  rail-fence  odd,  enclosing 
A  humble  hut,  a  patch  of  fern, 

A  man  of  age,  reposing, 
Beneath  an  oak  tree  proud  and  stern, 

He  sat  half  sleeping,  dozing. 

The  mellow  breeze,  his  silvery  hair, 
Which  on  his  brow  was  glowing, 

Like  glist'ning  waves,  like  blossoms  rare, 
Caressingly  was  blowing, 

And  playfully  perfumed  the  air 
With  scents  from  lilacs  flowing. 

The  maid  approached.    His  feeble  hand 
Once  strong  in  youth,  lay  resting 

On  Hector's  head,  whom  New  Foundland 
Could  claim  his  own,  suggesting, 

That  e'er  the  weak  near  him  doth  stand, 
Whose  strength  is  fear-arresting. 

In  glee  the  dog,  the  graceful  maid 

Encircled,  ever  leaping, 
His  joyful  bark,  a  serenade 

I  deemed  most  perfect,  sweeping. 
He  loved  her  too,  for  he  obeyed, 

Which  surely  was  in  keeping. 

I  followed  soon.    The  sage  arose, 
The  maid  stood  trembling,  blushing, 

The  dog  who  growled  in  threatening  pose 
Did  heed  his  master's  hushing. 

And  soon  like  friends  we  all  stood  close  — 
Nearby  a  brooklet  gushing. 
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Early  Poems 


I  bowed,  explained  in  confidence, 
What  brought  me  here,  omitting 

Howe'er,  to  dwell  with  eloquence 
On  things  which  caused  a  twitting 

Within  my  heart,  and  penitence 
Seemed  now  in  place,  befitting. 

The  hoary  sage,  with  cheerful  face, 
Asked  me  to  join  their  dining. 

And  I,  too  willing  to  embrace 
A  chance  so  rare,  combining 

A  feast  for  eyes,  and  wisdom's  grace, 
I  thought  not  of  declining. 

I  must  admit  I  was  enthralled, 

There  could  be  no  denying. 
The  hour-hand  which  often  crawled, 

For  once  I  thought  was  flying, 
In  such  a  way  I  was  appalled, 

Its  speed  was  mortifying. 

The  treatment  I  received,  instilled 
Hopes  cheering  and  perplexing 

Within  my  heart.     Since  then,  I  killed 
Much  time,  the  love  annexing, 

Of  those  I  loved.     They,  plain,  unskilled, 
Ne'er  found  my  presence  vexing. 

Alas,  since  then  the  world  has  changed, 
Here  joy,  there  sorrow  flinging ; 

But  she  and  I  we  have  arranged 
That  to  each  other  clinging, 

We'll  face  all  storms,  and  unestranged 
Meet  all,  fate  may  be  bringing. 
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Early  Poems 


THE  FOG  HORN 

Lord,  oh  lead  us  in  life's  ocean, 

Draw  Thy  hand  not  from  Thy  creature, 
Cleanse  our  hearts  with  healing  lotion, 

Stamp  Thy  image  on  each  feature : 
Guide  our  life-ship  when  the  weather 
Is  calm  or  fierce,  o'er  sea  or  heather. 

Guard  our  course  when  earthly  passions, 
Masked  in  garb  of  harmless  sport, 

Undermine  our  best  possessions, 
Our  virtue  true,  our  health  resort. 

Send  Thy  pilot  Prudence  ever 

Us  from  reefs  to  steer  and  sever. 

When  dusk  enshrouds  our  firmament, 
And  blinding  storms  our  envelope  — 

When  guilt  shakes  us  most  violent, 
Then  light,  Oh  Lord,  our  beacon  Hope ; 

And  re-ignite  and  fan  the  flame, 

Of  honor,  rectitude,  and  fame. 

But  when  obscured  by  fog  and  mist, 
Our  beacon  light,  our  hope  has  fled, 

The  compass  lost,  then,  Lord,  assist, 
Or  storms  will  our  morals  shred. 

Then  in  our  fog-horn,  Conscience,  blow 

A  mighty  blast,  and  light  will  glow. 


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Early  Poems 


THE  DIGNITY   OF  LABOR 

When  my  spirits  are  fettered,  and  my  heart  filled  with  gloom, 

And  the  air  seems  to  breathe  destruction  and  doom ; 

When  the  songs  of  the  birds  no  longer  me  cheer, 

And  the  sunbeams  of  hope  are  displaced  by  fear, 

And  ready  to  totter,  cheer's  fostering  prop, 

Then  I  go  to  the  work-bench  that  stands  in  my  shop. 

There  stands  my  old  comrade,  my  true  and  tried  friend, 

In  times  of  grim  heartache,  me  now  to  defend. 

Soon  the  ring  of  the  hammer,  and  the  whiz  of  the  saw, 

Dispel  the  dark  phantoms,  who  flee  with  awe 

From  the  dignified  angel  who  guards  the  shrine 

Devoted  to  labor,  to  labor  divine. 

Labor,  like  virtue,  makes  strong  us,  and  free, 
And  God  is  delighted  its  footprints  to  see. 
Labor  is  the  only,  the  sure  antidote 
Our  sorrows  to  lighten  (and  joys  to  promote), 
Which  burden  our  mind,  and  make  us  quake, 
And  threaten  our  heart  with  grief  to  break. 

Labor  is  the  power  which  all  should  seek, 
Who  desire  to  ascend  to  the  loftiest  peak 
Of  success,  of  honor,  of  undying  fame ; 
Like  Kepler,  the  searcher  of  illustrious  name, 
Like  Caesar,  who  conquered  the  world  alone, 
Like  Franklin,  whose  star  so  brightly  shone. 

And  those  contented  with  a  humbler  lot, 
Should  bear  in  mind  that  labor  is  not 

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Early  Poems 


A  torture  invented  us  to  disgrace, 

For  every  being  must  fill  its  place 

In  the  workshop  of  Nature.     God  did  decree 

That  toil  be  the  lever  the  slave  to  free. 


TO  THEE  ALONE 

The  north  winds  are  blowing 

So  chilling,  so  cold, 
But  my  heart,  it  grows  warmer, 

With  feelings  untold. 

My  thoughts  often  wander 
To  the  dear  one  I  love, 

While  the  clouds  in  the  heavens 
Grow  darker  above. 

The  winter  draws  nearer, 
The  summer  has  flown ; 

I  send  its  last  blossoms 
To  thee  alone. 


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Early  Poems 


THE  AVENGERS   OF  IBICUS 

When  Ibicus  was  dying 

Laid  low  by  ruthless  hand, 
A  flock  of  cranes  came  flying, 
Their  wings  repose  denying, 

Bound  for  their  native  land. 

Then  up,  with  trembling  finger, 
He  pointed  towards  the  cranes, 

And  spoke:  "Brave  birds,  don't  linger, 

Speed  on,  avenge  the  singer, 
Whose  dying  breath  arraigns 

"The  low  assassins  under 
Whose  strokes  I'll  lose  my  life, 

O  Lord!    Pour  forth  your  thunder, 

Let  your  hand  rift  assunder 
The  clouds  above  this  strife." 

He  died  alone.     Forgotten  ? 

Oh  no,  God  ne'er  forgets. 
This  deed  so  foul  and  rotten, 
By  greed  for  gold  begotten, 

Soon  fell  in  Justice'  nets. 

The  murderers  now  fleeing 

Did  tremble  oft  in  fear, 
For  everywhere,  when  seeing 
A  crane,  a  harmless  being 

Their  fright  did  reappear. 
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Early  Poems 


Forgetting  of  the  danger, 

Or  thinking  out  aloud, 
"Behold,  the  fateful  ranger, 
Of  Ibicus,  the  stranger," 

Cried  one,  "who  vengeance  vowed." 

Too  late.    They  were  detected, 
And  none  the  crime  denied, 

To  searching  trial  subjected, 

The  punishment  effected 
Was  swift  and  justified. 

Alas!  for  those  whose  doing 

The  light  of  day  must  fear. 
An  avenger  pursuing, 
All  thoughts  in  us  accruing  — 
Is  always,  ever  near. 

This  avenger,  never  sleeping, 
Is  conscience,  known  to  all, 
Its  sting  (not  cranes  a  sweeping 
High  in  the  air)  came  creeping, 
And  caused  the  robber's  fall. 


SOLITUDE 

When  man  unkind,  or  cruel  stroke 

Of  fate  thy  soul  embitter, 
When  criticized  by  heartless  folk 

Who  praise  all  things  that  glitter 
(Their  ignorance  oft  makes  them  rude), 
Then  heed  me,  friend,  seek  solitude. 
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Early  Poems 


When  envy  tries  to  undermine 
Thy  lifework,  kind  and  blameless, 

And  mental  dwarfs,  who  aim  to  shine 
In  deeds  both  worth —  and  nameless, 

With  wisdom  of  their  kind  intrude, 

Then  seek,  oh  friend,  seek  solitude. 

When  narrowness  thy  broader  ways 

Of  thinking  tries  to  fetter, 
And  for  itself  claims  all  light's  rays, 

And  boasts  of  being  better; 
Then,  friend  of  mine,  I  say  elude, 
Go  hence  and  seek  for  solitude. 

When  discords  of  a  serious  kind 
Within  thy  heart  should  rankle, 

And  demons  fierce,  thy  head,  thy  mind, 
Thy  arm,  thy  foot  and  ankle, 

With  passion  shake,  I  should  conclude 

Thy  safest  cure  is  solitude. 

Yes,  solitude's  the  panacea, 

I  prize  for  every  trouble, 
Of  young  or  old.     'Tis  my  idea 

That  it  good  cheer  will  double; 
In  Nature's  arms  I  oft  reviewed 
My  childhood  joys  in  solitude. 


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Early  Poems 


IN   MEMORY  OF   EMILIE   BAUER 

Emilie  dear,  our  darling, 

Cut  short  is  thy  life  in  its  bloom. 
The  lark  and  the  blithe  meadow-starling, 

Are  mourning  for  thee  now  in  gloom. 
Your  voice  ever  sweet  and  most  charming, 
Has  yielded  to  grief's  sting,  alarming. 

The  forests  and  woodlands  will  miss  thee, 
And  the  brook  in  its  murmuring  sound, 

Will  join  the  bright  sunbeams  which  kissed  thee, 
Lamenting  for  thee,  who  hath  wound 

A  wreath  of  bright  virtues,  whose  charm 

Will  Fate's  cruel  menace  disarm! 

The  zephyr,  his  sport  now  suspending, 

Caresses  no  longer  thy  brow; 
The  sounds  e'er  thy  footsteps  attending 

Are  hushed,  and  not  cheering  us  now; 
Thy  paths  here  on  earth  are  forsaken; 
Since  God  to  himself  thee  hath  taken. 

Your  parents  and  kindred  most  sadly, 
Will  miss  thee,  now  sick  at  their  heart ; 

The  roses  and  lilies,  who  gladly 
Their  fragrance  to  thee  did  impart, 

Are  lonesome  without  thee,  and  languish, 

And  bowing  their  heads  in  their  anguish. 

The  hawthorn,  the  roadside  adorning, 
E'er  watching  thy  fleet  foot  pass  by; 
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The  cowslips,  your  love  never  scorning, 

The  cloudlets  which  float  in  the  sky  — 
All  loved  thee,  but  weep  now  in  sorrow, 
Nor  grudge  thee  thy  brighter  To-morrow. 

The  storm  in  its  rage  and  its  fury, 
Will  harmless  pass  over  thy  grave; 

From  hardship,  from  sickness,  penury, 
Did  God  in  his  kindness  thee  save ; 

All  ills  of  this  life  in  death  ending, 

No  longer  thy  peace  are  offending. 

The  universe  grand  and  imposing, 
God  made,  and  again  can  undo ; 

The  stars  in  the  heavens  disclosing 
Their  glorious  brightness  to  you 

Must  end  at  His  bidding  and  crumble  — 

Yet  saved  are  the  true  and  the  humble. 

Emilie  dear,  our  darling, 

We'll  follow,  and  join  thee  all  soon, 
The  lark  and  the  blithe  meadow  starling, 

The  winds  and  the  light  of  high  noon, 
All  await  God's  command,  and  will  fall, 
If  such  is  His  will,  at  His  call. 


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AS  FAR  AS  IT   GOES 

"  Oh,  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us, 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us." —  Burns. 

As  far  as  it  goes,  'twould  be  a  fine  thing, 
To  see  ourselves  as  others,  and  fling 
Aside  the  conceit  which  befogs  our  brain, 
And  discard  our  follies  in  wrath  and  disdain. 

But  mind  ye,  oh  friends,  that  others  may  err, 
In  judging  our  virtues;  your  verdict  defer; 
From  outward  appearance,  which  often  misleads, 
Man  forms  his  opinion  of  other  men's  deeds. 

They  see  not  the  motive  which  leads  you  to  act, 
They  know  not  the  power  which  tends  to  contract 
Oft  harmful  designs,  and  turns  the  flood 
From  evil  to  good,  or  from  water  to  blood. 

They'll  raise  oft  the  scoundrel  to  honors  on  high, 
While  deriding  the  pure,  the  honest,  and  fly 
To  rescue  the  knave.     And  thus  you  see 
The  judgment  of  men  is  sad  mockery. 

As  far  as  it  goes,  'twould  be  a  fine  thing  — 
But  to  see  ourselves  as  God  does,  the  King 
Who  ne'er  is  mistaken,  nor  ever  has  erred  — 
'Twould  be  a  great  favor,  undreamed  of,  unheard. 

(No  disrespect  toward  the  great  poet  Burns  is  meant  by  the  above,  as  the 
author  only  enlarged  upon  the  well-laid  foundation  of  Burns.) 


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THE   CYCLONE 

Whence  comest  thou  from,  and  where  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  king  of  destroyers,  most  terrible  guest! 
Which  is  the  power  that  causes  thy  flow, 

And  what  the  condition  that  puts  thee  to  rest  ? 

Thy  voice  is  the  terror  of  every  creature, 
Thy  aim  is  destruction,  thy  follower,  death ; 

Devastation  and  ruin,  thy  general  feature, 
Despair  is  the  angel  which  follows  thy  breath. 

Like  strugling  Cyclops,  who  carelessly  trample 
The  worm  in  the  dust,  without  intent, 

So  dost  thou  cruelly  kill,  without  ample 
Warning,  all  beings,  till  thy  fury  is  spent. 

Unconscious  destroyer,  great  is  thy  power, 
Thou  fillest  all  hearts  with  awe  and  fear ; 

At  thy  approach  the  bravest  will  cower, 
And  feigned  bravado  will  disappear. 

Though  called  a  destroyer,  and  worthy  that  name, 
Thou  art  but  a  bungler  compared  with  men ; 

Who,  ferocious  and  beast-like,  will  inflame, 
The  hatred  of  nations,  of  city,  or  glen. 

Thou  art  a  terror,  but  men  in  thy  path, 
Like  vultures  will  follow,  and  oh  the  shame, 

Will  steal  the  gift  which  the  merciful  hath 
Donated  unselfish  in  humanity's  name; 
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Will  steal  from  the  poor,  and  hyena  like, 
Devour  the  helpless,  and  tramp  down  the  weak ; 

Oh  merciful  God,  why  dost  Thou  not  strike, 
And  on  these  cravens,  Thy  vengeance  wreak  ? 

* 
O  merciful  God!    The  fire  and  storm, 

The  flood  in  its  fury,  are  a  matter  of  chance ; 
But  the  human  hyena,  e'er  loth  to  conform, 

To  thy  sacred  commandment,  doth  ruthless  advance, 

And  vampire  like,  regardless  of  right, 

Defies  Thy  laws,  and  from  his  prey, 
His  helpless  prey,  in  his  sorrow  and  plight, 

Sucks  the  last  drop  of  blood  away. 

Thy  forbearance,  O  Lord,  we  cannot  doubt, 
And  Thy  wisdom  supreme  needs  no  defense. 

But  why,  O  Lord,  I  ask  Thee  devout, 

Should  avarice  pollute  thy  creation  immense  ? 

(After  a  fearful  cyclone  had  destroyed  the  unfortunate  town  of  Pomeroy, 
in  Iowa,  many  of  the  appointed  officers  put  a  large  share  of  the  money 
received  in  trust  into  their  own  pockets.) 


SORROW 

Steel  thy  heart  when  sorrow  meets  thee, 
Flee  thou  not  in  useless  speed. 

None  escapes,  and  none  who  greets  thee, 
Ever  baffled  sorrow's  greed. 

Sorrow's  sway,  and  sorrow's  power, 

Undisputed  o'er  us  lower. 
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Think  thou  not,  that  care  and  sorrow, 
In  mankind's  dregs  alone  are  found. 

I  to-day,  and  you  to-morrow, 
Feel  its  gnawing  hear  its  sound. 

Princes  proud,  with  treasures  blessed, 

Feel  its  scourge,  and  find  no  rest. 

Cohorts  of  minor  servants  follow 

Sorrow  in  its  daily  path. 
Groundless  fear,  perversions  hollow, 

All  upon  thee  wreak  their  wrath. 
All  unite,  and  none  they  spare, 
All  entrap  thee  in  their  snare. 

Ranks  defying,  sorrow  wanders 

O'er  the  earth,  no  favorite 
On  whom  it  ever  mercy  squanders; 

Its  realm  is  vast,  and  infinite. 
Sorrow  comes,  and  plans  are  blasted, 
And  cherished  hopes  we  find  dismasted. 

In  duty's  service,  every  tilt 
Counts  and  is  a  mighty  ally, 

In  consciousness  that  free  from  guilt, 
Let  thy  timid  spirit  rally. 

Steel  thy  heart,  and  never  waver, 

When  sorrow  comes,  the  wrinkle  graver. 


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LOVE'S   DEATH 

SHE: 

My  heart  is  with  him, 

With  him  is  my  mind. 
From  weeping  are  dim 
My  eyes.     I  have  pined 
Without  avail : 
My  courage  doth  fail. 

I'll  die  in  despair, 

Unless  a  kind  fate, 
Or  an  angel  most  fair 
Will  vanquish  his  hate : 
He  once  did  love  me 
In  highest  degree, 

But  I  trifled  with  him, 

(O  sword,  seek  thy  sheath) 
And  remorse  most  grim 
With  relentless  teeth 
Gnaws  in  my  heart, 
Oh  woe  is  my  part! 

HE: 

At  the  morning  sun's  rise 

And  the  evening  sun's  set, 
Regret  doth  surprise, 
Myself,  and  yet, 

She  knew  I  was  true, 
But  could  not  subdue 


Early  Poems 


Her  wicked  impulse 

To  give  me  sore  pain, 
So  she  tried  to  convulse 
My  heart,  true  and  plain, 
By  flirting  with  men, 
Within  my  ken. 

Her  object,  no  doubt, 

Was  selfish  and  wrong, 

And  none  but  a  lout 

Would  join  in  a  throng 

Of  amorous  swains, 

Where  folly  reigns. 

To  fasten  her  sway 

O'er  me  was  her  aim. 
But  she  killed  every  ray 
Of  Love's  clear  flame ; 
And  when  love  is  dead, 
All  illusions  have  fled. 


WHY  SHOULD  NO  LIVING  BEING  SAVE  MAN 
HAVE  A  SOUL? 

Presuming,  selfish  man! 
Thy  arrogance, 
Luxuriance, 

Forstalls  thy  Maker's  plan. 
A  soul  thou  claimest  for  thyself, 
While  horse  and  dog,  part  of  thy  pelf, 
Must  die,  a  soulless  span. 
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A  friend  within  thy  sight 
Who  loves  and  fears 
God,  and  adheres 
To  maxims,  fair  and  right, 

Will  treat  his  poor,  dependent  beast 
With  love,  or  gentleness  at  least, 
With  hand  both  kind  and  light. 

The  neighbor  at  thy  left, 
Whose  heart  of  stone 
Ne'er  will  atone 

For  wounds  his  hand  hath  cleft ; 
Most  merciless,  with  brutal  zeal 
Maltreats  God's  creatures,  whose  appeal 
Finds  him  of  sense  bereft. 

Thy  answer  is,  no  doubt, 
That  God,  the  just, 
In  wrath  will  thrust, 
The  brute  into  the  spout 

Which  leads  to  him  whom  myth  adorns, 
(Prince  Satanas)  with  hoofs  and  horns, 
With  tail  and  fiery  knout. 

So  far,  'tis  good  and  well. 
But  tell  me,  pray, 
Who  will  repay 
The  beast,  whose  doleful  yell 

Will  die  unheard.     Who  will  requite 
The  innocent,  who  did  excite 
Thy  wrath,  thou  food  of  hell  ? 

Who  will  repay,  I  ask, 
The  soulless  brute, 
Helpless  and  mute, 
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Whose  life  is  but  one  task 
Of  servitude,  of  joyless  toil, 
A  chain  of  hardship  and  turmoil  ? 

Down,  feigner,  with  thy  mask! 


A  MYTHOLOGICAL   ORGY 

Serenely  the  stars  were  twinkling, 

Preparing  for  the  ball, 
While  a  mysterious  inkling, 

From  unseen  lips  did  fall, 
And  a  generous  incense  sprinkling 

All  senses  did  enthrall. 

The  universe  illum'ed 

With  myriads  of  torches ; 
Zephyr-like  clouds,  perfumed, 

Subdued  the  heat  which  scorches ; 
When  Jupiter  Rex  assumed 

His  stand  on  Elysium's  porches. 

Graciously,  as  ever, 
He  welcomed  every  guest; 

Mars,  richly  dressed  and  clever, 
Led  by  his  side  one  blest 

With  charms  that  none  could  sever 
From  Venus,  the  loveliest. 

The  lions  of  society 

And  gnomes  both  large  and  small, 
Of  spirits  a  variety, 

Did  answer  the  roll-call, 
And  bowed  with  due  propriety ; 

But  hark!     What  a  sudden  squall! 
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Early  Poems 


At  first  it  seemed  a  riddle  — 
The  din  could  move  a  stone ; 

Boreas  in  the  middle 

Stood,  tuning  his  trombone, 

And  Urania,  whose  fiddle 
Was  wailing,  held  her  own. 

Apollo,  the  great  sire 
Of  music,  beat  the  time, 

And  Orpheus  with  his  lyre 
Fell  in,  with  strains  sublime ; 

He  tamed  both  shrieks  and  ire 
With  his  harmonious  chime. 

The  dance  was  soon  progressing 

Terpsichore  did  guide ; 
Fortuna,  with  a  blessing, 

Joined  in  the  rhythmic  slide ; 
Though  a  hundred  eyes  possessing, 

Swam  Argus  with  the  tide. 

Aurora,  too,  and  Isis 

Were  found  within  the  throng, 
And  even  good  Osiris, 

And  Hercules  the  strong. 
Poseidon  at  this  crisis, 

Delighted,  swung  his  prong. 

To  Bacchus  oft  appealed 
The  mirthful  in  their  glee, 

And  those  in  sorrow  kneeled 
On  Lethe's  banks  so  free, 

Their  thirsting  souls,  which^reeled 
From  guilt  to  misery. 

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Naiads,  sirens,  muses, 

All  living  and  the  dead, 
Resumed  without  excuses 

Or  plea,  their  former  tread. 
Though  Nemesis  her  abuses 

In  showers  o'er  them  shed. 

The  limbs  of  Pan  in  their  socket 
Were  skipping  like  a  fawn. 

Next  off  went,  like  a  rocket, 
Morpheus,  with  a  yawn, 

And  the  moon,  with  hand  in  pocket, 
Complacently  looked  on. 

Yet,  every  beginning 

Must  also  end,  disband. 
Old  Sol  stepped  forth,  and  grinning, 

He  three  times  clapped  his  hand, 
And  the  misty  phantoms,  spinning, 

In  Tartarus  did  land. 


WHY  REPINE? 

Cheer  up,  my  friend,  why  thus  corrode  ? 
Oppressed,  no  doubt,  by  secret  load, 

Your  mind  gives  way  to  brooding. 
Again,  cheer  up!    Be  not  a  slave 
Of  chance  —  for  surely  time  will  lave 

Your  woes,  on  the  intruding. 

Affliction  comes,  at  every  chance, 
Deriding  time  and  circumstance, 
Nor  humble  prey  despising. 
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The  rich  and  strong  are  not  exempt 
From  sorrow,  pain,  or  from  contempt 
(Oft  a  deserved  chastising). 

Yet,  friend,  stand  firm,  although  oppressed, 
Your  ailings  soon  may  be  redressed, 

Quit  only  woe  compiling. 
And  do  not  grumble  or  repine ; 
Your  neighbor's  lot  is  worse  than  thine, 

Yet  is  he  always  smiling. 

The  burdens  which  our  spirits  bend, 
If  magnified,  with  gloom  will  blend, 

All  our  thoughts  arresting. 
But  if  resisted  and  subdued, 
Compared  with  blessings  since  accrued  — 

No  longer  are  molesting. 

Most  ills  of  life  in  which  all  share, 
Which  drive  their  victims  to  despair, 

Are  not  real  but  seeming. 
And  happy  he,  whose  buoyant  soul 
Is  master  e'er,  who  can  control 

And  overcome  Fate's  scheming. 

Happiness  and  pain  can  dwell 
In  peace  together  —  let  me  tell 

A  secret,  reconciling ; 
If  thou  thyself  dost  happy  feel, 
The  views  of  others  ne'er  can  steal 

The  joy  upon  thee  smiling. 


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AMERICA 

America,  dear  native  land, 

0  land  so  noble,  free  and  grand! 
"I  sing  this  song  to  thee." 

For  thee,  for  thee!     With  hand  and  heart, 

1  pray  to  God,  may  ne'er  depart 
Thy  liberty. 

For  thee,  thy  sons  and  daughters  brave, 
Will  carry  with  them  to  the  grave, 

A  love  most  holy  and  divine. 
And  every  wife  and  every  man, 
Would  sacrifice  their  dearest  plan 

Before  our  native  shrine. 

To  heaven's  care,  thy  soil,  thy  air, 

Thy  mountains,  lakes,  and  streams  so  fair, 

Most  earnestly  I  do  commend. 
God,  the  just,  has  ever  blessed 
Our  native  land  from  east  to  west, 

From  north  to  south,  from  end  to  end. 

But  ho!    What  glorious  bird  is  this ? 
A  soaring  over  precipice, 

And  mountains  steep  and  high  ? 
'Tis  not  a  vulture  on  a  prowl, 
'Tis  not  a  falcon,  nor  an  owl, 

A  roaming  in  the  sky. 

What  means  the  glittering  arrow-crest, 
And  what  the  banner  on  its  breast, 
As  with  the  stars  and  stripes  it  flies  ? 
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Early  Poems 


'Tis  our  Eagle  on  the  wing, 
A  keeping  guard,  and  everything 
Within  his  sight  in  safety  lies. 


Oh  royal  bird,  so  strong  and  grand! 
Oh,  ne'er  forsake  our  native  land, 

Our  land  so  brave  and  free. 
America!    With  hand  and  heart 
We  pray  to  God,  may  ne'er  depart 

Thy  liberty. 


A  TALE 

Once  an  old  hero  bold, 
Chief  of  the  Arquanold, 
Up  in  the  highest  wold, 

Camped  with  his  band. 
In  war  with  another  tribe, 
Whose  chief,  with  a  sneering  gibe, 
Once  dauntingly  did  inscribe 

A  war  ax  in  sand. 


The  Arquanold  warriors  who 
For  strife  ever  ready,  flew 
To  vanquish  and  to  subdue 

Their  insolent  foe. 
Just  where  we  are  resting  now, 
Away  from  the  summit's  brow, 
On  corpses,  a  fearful  mow, 

Did  the  rising  sun  glow. 
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Early  Poems 


For  our  old  hero  chief, 

In  battle,  both  fierce  and  brief, 

Had  routed  and  brought  to  grief, 

The  enemy  bold. 
In  horror,  the  rising  sun, 
Shone  on  the  night's  work  done, 
Ghastly,  and  fit  to  stun 

Those  who  did  it  behold. 

Alluni,  the  chieftain's  child, 

Virtuous,  gentle,  mild, 

The  "prairie's  pure  lily"  styled, 

Descended  the  hill. 
In  pity  she  onward  moved, 
By  warriors  fierce  reproved, 
But  quiet,  as  it  behooved, 

In  compassionate  thrill. 

In  pity,  now  multiplied, 

She  on  the  bare  ground  espied 

A  foe  who  still  death  defied, 

With  a  deep  bleeding  wound. 
Trying  her  thoughts  to  trace, 
He  slowly  raised  up  his  face, 
With  features  of  rarest  grace, 

But  instantly  swooned. 

A  grim  warrior,  standing  near, 
Furiously  grasped  his  spear, 
And  aimed,  with  an  ugly  sneer, 

At  his  noblest  part. 
But  Alluni,  swift  as  a  flash 
Which  precedes  the  loud  thunder's  crash, 
With  a  bound,  an  impulsive  dash, 

Covered  his  heart. 
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Early  Poems 


The  spear  struck  her  shoulder  plate, 
And  pinned  her  to  him,  whose  fate 
She  tried  to  alleviate, 

Discarding  all  fear. 
Her  father  shook  like  a  leaf ; 
Frantic  with  pain  and  grief, 
And  hastened  to  her  relief, 

Withdrawing  the  spear. 

Then  up  stood  th^  maiden  brave, 
And  grasping  an  arrow,  grave 
Words  from  her  lips  did  wave 

In  the  balmy  cool  air. 
"With  this  sharpened  arrow  point, 
Which  skilful  hands  did  annoint, 
With  poison,  I'll  prick  my  joint, 

And  quench  my  despair." 

"Unless,  dearest  father,  thou 
Wilt  pledge  with  a  sacred  vow 
To  spare  the  youth  swooning  now, 

From  death  and  all  plague." 
The  chieftain,  'twixt  fear  and  hate, 
Yearning  his  wrath  to  sate, 
Tried  to  equivocate, 

In  words  rather  vague. 

But  seeing  the  arrow  glist, 

Near  her  denuded  wrist, 

He  vowed,  and  a  sudden  mist 

Her  mind  did  enshroud. 
True  to  his  sacred  pledge, 
The  chief  did  no  longer  hedge, 
But  ground  down  his  hatred's  edge, 

So  haughty  and  proud. 
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Early  Poems 


Both  scorning  vile  pills  or  broth, 
Recovered,  and  pledged  their  troth, 
And  to  love  turned  the  chieftain's  wrath, 

Ere  the  full  moon  turned  pale. 
And  when  the  old  hero  died, 
The  Arquanold  in  their  pride, 
Elected  Chief  Lightning-Stride  — 

And  here  ends  the  tale. 


TAKE   PRIDE  IN  THY  CALLING 

Take  pride  in  thy  calling,  oh  mortal, 
Or  failure  will  surely  attend  thee. 
With  letters  of  gold  o'er  thy  portal 
Mark  plainly,  distinctly,  and  handy, 
Vocation  and  calling, 
With  neatness,  not  sprawling, 
And  all  will  consider  thee  "sandy." 

Have  faith  in  thy  doctrine,  or  scoffers 

Thy  teaching  in  slime  pits  will  draggle. 
Aim  higher  than  filling  thy  coffers 
With  treasure,  or  sure  thou  wilt  straggle 
From  the  path  of  success ; 
If  not,  faith  limitless 
Will  raise  thee  o'er  trifling  and  haggle. 


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HUMAN  NATURE 

Not  all  is  bad  that  we  despise, 
Nor  all  that  like  the  cream  doth  rise 

Should  we  admire. 
The  human  mind,  like  all  on  earth, 
Is  imperfect.    Abundance,  dearth, 
Our  griefs  and  joys,  and  harmless  mirth, 

Like  a  hot  fire, 
Our  hearts  do  mark 
Now  light,  now  dark, 

With  love  or  ire. 

We  struggle  hard,  and  take  due  pains 
That  in  our  lines,  our  skill  attains 

The  highest  ranks. 

Yet,  though  we  strain  in  ceaseless  toil, 
Our  powers  all,  and  ne'er  recoil 
From  honest  work  in  life's  turmoil, 

We  draw  but  blanks. 
But  others  gain 
What  we  would  fain 

Accept  with  thanks. 

With  seeming  ease,  some  make  a  name. 
We  persecute  them,  and  defame 

Their  fair  repute, 
For  envy  is  the  demon  dark 
Who  aims  at  every  shining  mark, 
As  doth  the  seaman  at  the  shark, 

Most  resolute. 
When  their  life's  spent 
Their  monument 

We  execute. 

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Early  Poems 


TOO   LITTLE   OF  ANYTHING  IS   BUT   A  CURSE 

The  love  we  retain  for  our  kindreds'  sole  use 
Of  right  doth  belong  to  all  beings  that  breathe. 

God's  less-favored  creatures,  we  ever  abuse, 
And  crown  ourselves  with  an  ill-bestowed  wreath. 

Neglecting  the  needy,  our  chattels  we  nurse ; 

Too  little  of  anything  is  but  a  curse. 

Oft  haters  of  evil,  whose  courage  doth  fail, 
Who  waver  for  fear  when  a  crisis  they  meet, 

Will  yield  to  corruption,  and  faint-hearted  quail 
When  firmness  would  stagger,  and  force  to  retreat 

The  enemy  shamming,  whose  valor's  still  worse ; 

Too  little  of  anything  is  but  a  curse. 

There  are  cases  where  plenty,  which  ne'er  doth  abate, 
May  smother  of  ever-prized  kindness  the  germ, 

Which  thrives  while  fulfilling  impulses  innate, 
Whose  lamp  is  ne'er  lacking  the  oil  or  the  sperm. 

Yet  vain  all  endeavors,  if  slim  our  purse ; 

Too  little  of  anything  is  but  a  curse. 

If  each  in  his  backyard  had  gold  to  scoop  up, 
The  Klondike  and  Rand  would  be  left  to  their  fate. 

And  Death  would  discard  soon  the  bane-brimming  cup 
Of  gold,  which  doth  strife  and  dissention  create. 

Ah,  had  we  but  more,  we'd  gladly  disburse ; 

Too  little  of  anything  is  but  a  curse. 


LATER    POEMS 


YESTERDAY 

Where  are  the  joys  which  us  beguiled, 
When  love  and  simple  virtues  reigned, 

And  vanities  left  undenled 

Our  mind,  and  our  heart  unstained  ? 

Where  are  these  joys  which  none  could  stay, 

The  joys  of  vanished  yesterday  ? 

Where  is  the  work  of  long  ago, 
Which,  slowly  plodding,  we  pursued, 

And  still  had  leisure  to  bestow 

Profounder  thoughts  on  what  we  woo'd, 

While  we  to-day,  e'en  hastening  pray, 

Where  is  the  work  of  yesterday  ? 

Where  is  the  strength  distinguishing 
The  past,  in  deeds  and  thoughts  expressed  ? 

Though  rudely  fashioned,  everything 
Had  lasting  worth  and  stood  the  test. 

Where  is  the  strength,  which  did  betray 

The  trend  of  bygone  yesterday  ? 

Where  is  the  sham-despising  pride, 
Which  stoops  not  in  a  vain  desire 

The  jewel,  truth,  alas,  to  hide 
Beneath  misleading,  false  attire  ? 

Where  is  the  crown,  in  worth's  array, 

Where  is  the  pride  of  yesterday  ? 
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Later  Poems 


COMPENSATION 

The  laws  of  compensation, 

Not  few,  but  manifold, 
Do  equalize  what  otherwise 

Would  be  a  wrong  untold. 

One  may  possess  vast  riches, 

Yet  doth  he  miss  a  child 
Whose  babble  cheers,  and  dries  our  tears  — 

For  hearts  must  be  beguiled. 

And  he,  penury's  victim, 

Whom  fate  so  much  neglects, 
Oft  mourns  and  grieves  —  his  child  retrieves 

For  him  all  such  defects. 

Some  never  knew  their  parents, 

Nor  did  their  love  accost. 
Yet  recompense  saves  woe  intense  — 

The  unknown  can't  be  lost. 

Great  intellects  e'er  straying 

Into  mind's  silent  realm 
Gain  joys  unknown  to  the  idle  drone, 

And  woes  to  overwhelm ; 

While  he  whose  mind  is  clouded 

Is  happy  in  his  way ; 
Not  high  nor  deep  his  aims  do  creep, 

For  small  stakes  doth  he  play. 
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Later  Poems 


Sin  may  enhance  our  status, 
And  transient  profits  bring; 

Yet  sin  begets  no  violets, 

But  thorns  to  smart  and  sting. 

He  who  has  few  possessions 

Can  lose  but  few  at  last, 
While  others  may  see  much  decay 

If  much  they  have  amassed. 

The  laws  of  compensation 
With  God's  hand  keep  apace, 

Each  gets  his  share  of  joy  and  care, 
Best  suited  in  his  case. 

Were  all  alike  in  riches, 

In  health,  and  wisdom's  way, 

Progress  would  halt,  and  sloth  exalt, 
And  striving  minds  decay. 

The  gift  of  understanding 
The  King  of  mortal  kings, 

Alone  can  claim ;  He  knows  his  aim, 
But  we  are  helpless  things. 


Later  Poems 


TO   BABY   CARMEN 

Composed  January  29,  1905,  in  honor  of  little  Carmen  Eggerth,  just  six 
months  old,  weight  16  pounds. 

Baby,  now  a  polliwog, 

Has  bright  eyes,  e'er  peeping ; 
Baby,  like  a  little  log, 

Rolling  o'er,  is  keeping 
All  her  secrets  to  herself, 
And  delights  in  colored  pelf, 

Laughing  now,  then  weeping. 
Baby,  now  a  polliwog, 
Soon  will  be  a  little  frog, 

Creeping,  ever  creeping. 

Baby,  now  a  little  elf, 

Keeps  on  growing,  growing ; 
And  intrudes  her  little  self, 

Where  joy  is  gifts  bestowing. 
Baby,  oh,  thy  tricks  are  vain, 
Yet  do  they  each  one  entertain, 

Be  calm,  the  winds  are  blowing. 
Baby,  yet  a  little  elf, 
All  doth  claim,  from  floor  to  shelf, 

With  bulging  eyes,  and  glowing. 


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TO   BYRON 

Byron,  oh  Bryon,  an  error  most  grievous, 

'Twas  when  thou  didst  mention  thy  critic  by  name, 

Whose  small  pricking  arrows  could  never,  believe  us, 
Thy  merit  diminish,  nor  darken  thy  fame. 

The  aim  of  the  well-known  sly  burgher  of  Edin 

Was  doubtless  to  keep  his  own  lustre  from  fadin'. 

All  critics  I'd  liken  to  mirrors,  and  looking- 
Glasses,  quite  worthless,  if  left  in  the  dark. 

The  light  must  fall  on  them  before  they  —  oft  shocking  — 
Can  mar  and  distort,  or  leave  a  true  mark. 

There  are  mirrors  and  mirrors,  some  faultless  and  polished, 

And  others  but  worthy  of  being  demolished. 

The  hen  needs  must  cackle,  but  the  egg  she  has  laid 

May  pass  as  excuse  for  the  needless  ado ; 
But  critics  unfruitful,  like  leeches,  invade 

The  realm  of  their  betters,  most  ruthless,  in  lieu 
Of  mending  their  spirit,  unfruitful  and  sear, 
Of  creating,  self-active,  or  seeking  the  rear. 

When  wine  becomes  sour,  and  worthless  to  drink, 

It  drops  to  the  rank  of  best  vinegar ; 
But  critics,  e'er  trying  reputations  to  sink 

Can  never  fall  lower  from  where  they  now  are. 
The  author  or  poet  embraced  by  the  critic 
Reminds  me  of  oak  trees  and  plants  parasitic. 

Byron,  oh  Byron,  'twas  an  error  to  wrest 

From  oblivion,  a  name  foredoomed  sure  to  fade. 

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Merit  will  rise  while  the  masses  digest 

The  works  of  thy  mind,  but  dwindle  to  shade 
In  spite  of  all  puffs  by  the  critic  employed, 
Thy  efforts  will  soon,  if  of  merit  devoid. 


TO  MY  FRIEND,  GEORGE  W.  HANNA 

(For  whom  the  author  erected  a  fine  residence.) 

The  job  is  done,  the  keys  are  thine, 
To  lock  each  door.     To  thee  assign 

I  now  each  chest  and  every  fixture, 
From  attic  roof  to  cellar  floor  — 
Dimensive  now  thy  will.     Explore 

At  leisure  thou  the  mixture. 

May  comfort,  warmth,  a  cheery  smile, 
Thy  outward  man  each  day  beguile, 

When  business  cares  thee  tire. 
And  may  thy  inner  man  rejoice 
At  deeds  of  love,  to  those  whose  voice 

To  thee  appeal  in  their  desire. 

For  kindness,  friend,  which  we  impart, 
Ne'er  leaves  a  sting  in  thine  own  heart  — 

It  is  God's  first  and  greatest  boon  — 
A  duty,  too,  for  weak  and  frail 
Are  mortal  men;  few  can  avail 

Themselves  of  gifts  which  flee  too  soon. 

Should  e'er  thy  mind  (I  truly  doubt  it) 
Mean  flattery  or  fawners'  plaudit 
Pervert,  and  cause  thy  spirits  rise, 
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Later  Poems 


Then  rise  thou  too,  scale  wall  and  roof, 
Far  o'er  the  earth  from  all  aloof  — 
None  could  men's  smallness  there  disguise. 

The  works  of  God,  immense  and  grand, 
In  glorious  garb  before  thee  stand. 

Thy  spirits  droop,  thou  seest  clear, 
Not  to  possess,  but  to  improve, 
Kind  Nature's  gifts,  it  doth  behoove 

The  creature,  man,  in  his  career. 

But  should  ill  health  or  loss  of  wealth, 
Or  other  griefs,  in  secret  stealth 

Thy  spirits  cause  in  woe  to  droop, 
Then,  friend  of  mine,  do  not  despair, 
Stand  firm,  erect,  and  then  compare 

Thy  lot  with  those  who  always  stoop. 

Adversity  will  cause  thine  eye 

To  read  men's  hearts,  and  thus  descry 

Much  silent  worth,  before  not  seen; 
And  Nature's  face,  God's  manuscript, 
Thou  then  canst  read,  with  eyes  equipped 

To  see  in  darkness,  clear  and  keen. 

x\dversity  thine  ear  will  train 
To  list,  in  patience  to  the  strain 

Of  those  whom  life  ne'er  brought  a  joy ; 
The  lisping  winds,  the  roaring  sea, 
Will  clearer,  louder,  speak  to  thee : 

"  Adversity  means  not  alloy." 

Let  ne'er  thy  better  judgement  swerve 
From  what  thy  heart  found  true.     Preserve 
The  cream  of  all  which  stood  the  test; 


Later  Poems 


An  honest  foe  who  with  strong  arm 
Thy  brow  attacks  will  do  less  harm 

Than  hidden  claws,  which  thee  caressed. 

The  man,  not  dress ;  the  deed,  not  word, 
Compels  respect,  we  ever  heard. 

A  seeming  fall  may  mean  thy  rise, 
Not  always  seen  by  man,  the  thrall 
Of  circumstances,  apt  to  fall, 

As  Adam  fell  in  Paradise. 

And  when  thy  life-clock  has  run  down, 
Go  hence  in  peace.     May  thy  renown 

Be  such  that  those  who  know  thee  best 
May  pray  sincere,  in  grief  and  tears, 
"  O  Lord,  spare  him  yet  twenty  years" ; 

Then  will  thy  memory  be  blessed. 

At  last,  my  friend,  good  cheer  be  thine 
(Philosophers  ne'er  do  repine). 

In  every  state,  each  day  and  year. 
And  to  thy  loved  ones,  kith  and  kin, 
I  wish  the  same,  and  peace  within, 

Again  I  say  to  thee,  "Good  cheer." 


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Later  Poems 


THE    GOLDEN  MEAN 

The  Christian  and  the  heathen 

Each  preaches  and  proclaims 
His  own  perplexing  doctrine, 

Which  covers  all  his  aims. 
And  I,  who  speechless  worship 

At  the  All-Mother's  shrine, 
I'm  seeking  for  a  guidepost, 

Yet  fail  to  see  its  sign. 

I've  seen  them  worship  idols, 

And  am  to  blame  myself, 
If  it  is  vain,  pernicious, 

To  cling  to  transient  pelf. 
I've  groped  and  searched  unceasing 

For  truths  which  are  divine; 
I'm  seeking  for  a  guidepost, 

Yet  fail  to  see  its  sign. 

Should  I  my  conscience  smother, 

And  ape  the  thoughtless  throng, 
Who  judge  all  things  by  seeming, 

And  turn  the  right  to  wrong? 
Or  pass  as  "crank"  molested 

By  folly's  grand  combine  ? 
I'm  seeking  for  a  guidepost, 

Yet  fail  to  see  its  sign. 

Should  I  for  wealth  and  riches 
E'er  strive  in  ruthless  zeal, 

That  I,  as  open-handed 
Myself  may  yet  reveal  ? 
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Later  Poems 


Or  should  as  helpless  pauper, 
My  goodness  I  define  ? 

I'm  seeking  for  a  guidepost, 
Yet  fail  to  see  its  sign. 

Should  I,  who  sees  but  riddles, 

Ask  others  them  to  solve  ? 
Or  should  my  finite  knowledge 

New  theories  evolve  ? 
Alas,  I  am  but  human, 

And  life,  a  boundless  mine ; 
I'm  seeking  for  a  guidepost, 

Yet  fail  to  see  its  sign. 


IT   CANNOT  LAST 

Let  e'er  thy  watchword  be : 

"It  cannot  last," 

Stand  firm,  stand  fast, 
Abide  by  God's  decree. 

Then  wilt  thou  ne'er  a  victim  fall 

To  innate  insolence  a  thrall, 
Nor  to  despair's  strong  plea. 

Should  dangers  thee  pursue, 

Stand  firm,  stand  fast, 

It  will  not  last. 
Be  brave,  and  strong,  and  true, 

The  clouds  which  hide  the  sun  to-day 

To-morrow  shall  have  ebbed  away, 
And  peace  will  bide  with  you. 
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Later  Poems 


Doth  beauty  thee  adorn, 

Stand  firm,  stand  fast, 

It  cannot  last, 
To  waste,  all  things  were  born. 

Thy  outward  grace,  cause  of  thy  pride, 

May  vanish  soon,  and  not  abide, 
And  give  thee  cause  to  mourn. 

Should  you  abound  in  joy, 

Stand  firm,  stand  fast, 

It  cannot  last : 
All  things  will  fade,  alloy, 

The  lips  so  sweet,  the  hands  so  warm, 

Which  oft  caressed  thy  yielding  form 
May  soon  grim  death  decoy. 

Hast  riches  thou,  oh  man  ? 

Stand  firm,  stand  fast, 

It  can  but  last 
As  long  as  your  life's  span. 

The  treasures  which  with  zeal  we  hoard, 

May  vanish  e'er  death's  ruthless  sword 
Lays  low  us,  pale  and  wan. 

When  death  at  last  thee  meets, 

Stand  firm,  stand  fast! 

Death  will  not  last : 
Death  ne'er  God's  aim  defeats. 

To  mould  will  turn  the  empty  shell ; 

Our  works  and  deeds  the  truth  will  tell, 
The  truth  which  life  completes. 


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Later  Poems 


WELCOME 

(Read  before  a  gathering  in  the  new  residence  of  the  author.) 

My  gentle  wife  for  whom  I've  planned 
This  new  abode,  with  head  and  hand, 

Has  left  me  far  too  soon; 
A  better  home,  an  endless  home, 
A  home  with  God  beneath  his  dome, 

Is  now  her  cherished  boon. 

And  you,  my  friends,  who  did  abide, 
When  fate  had  robbed  me  of  my  bride, 

And  grief  my  soul  bent  down, 
For  you  my  thanks,  my  heart-felt  thanks, 
I  shall  retain,  until  your  ranks 
Are  broke  by  death's  grim  frown. 

No  more  of  this.    To-night  we're  here 
To  while  away  in  right  good  cheer, 

As  oft  in  olden  time, 
The  fleeting  moments  of  the  night, 
Amid  the  games  and  sayings  bright, 

And  hear  the  music  chime. 

Welcome,  friends,  I  welcome  you; 
May  merrily  the  time  pursue 

Its  flight  within  my  hall ; 
May,  when  my  threshold  you  have  passed 
Your  sleep  with  soothing  dreams  be  massed; 

Aye,  welcome,  one  and  all. 


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Later  Poems 


TO   EMMA 

Dearest  wife,  although  departed, 
Thy  spirit  still  is  lingering  nigh. 

Thou  hast  been  my  hope  and  anchor 
When  the  waves  were  rolling  high ; 

Thou  hast  been  my  pride  and  honor, 
In  the  years  that  have  gone  by. 

Gentle  wife,  thy  deeds  and  actions 

Never  left  a  pain  or  sting, 
And  thy  love  and  thy  affections 

Never  were  found  wavering; 
Thou  hast  cheered  thy  husband's  summer, 

And  hast  blessed  thy  children's  spring. 

Sweetest  wife,  oh,  not  forgotten, 
Wilt  thou  be,  for  whom  I  moan; 

And  a  monument  more  precious 
Shalt  thou  have,  than  marble  stone, 

In  the  heart  of  him  who  loved  thee, 
As  only  he  loved  thee  alone. 


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Later  Poems 


THE     DYING     STRAINS     OF     ALEXANDER 
THOMPSON 

(This  happened  at  Dubuque,  Iowa,  1899.) 

A  train  was  wrecked.     What  matters 

The  loss  sustained  in  rolling  stock, 
Had  not  a  brave  man  suffered 

A  searching  pain  and  deadly  shock  ? 
Wedged  up  against  the  boiler, 

Which  smoke  belched  forth,  and  scorching  heat, 
Poor  Alexander  Thompson 

Was  found,  destined  thus  death  to  meet. 

Despite  of  all  exertions 

To  free  the  martyr,  sore  and  bruised, 
In  dreadful  straits,  and  hopeless, 

All  was  in  vain.     Though  each  refused, 
He  begged  without  cessation, 

To  end  his  misery  and  pain ; 
Then  tones  most  sweet  came  flowing 

In  one  continuous,  mellow  strain. 

They  flowed  from  lips  scarce  able 

To  move,  from  being  cracked  and  charred, 
They  touched,  like  angel's  voices, 

The  listeners'  hearts,  who  could  retard 
Their  grief  and  pain  no  longer. 

"My  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night," 
He  sang,  and  Death's  dark  shadows 

Gave  way  to  hope  of  coming  light. 
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Later  Poems 


Though  weak  and  ever  weaker, 

"My  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night," 
He  sang,  and  deepest  sadness, 

His  farewell  strain  did  thus  invite. 
All  bowed  their  heads,  still  trying 

To  ease  him  in  his  woe  and  blight; 
Once  more  he  breathed,  dying, 

"My  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night." 


LIFE   EVERYWHERE 

(Inspired  during  a  steamboat  trip  on  the  Mississippi,  June  16,  1907.) 

Our  lives  intertwine  like  the  billows, 

Which  ever  their  level  do  seek. 
The  low  lifts  the  high  even  higher, 

And  the  strong  shares  his  strength  with  the  weak. 

The  ripple  we  see  on  the  surface, 

Disguises  a  struggle  below, 
And  a  countenance  outwardly  beaming, 

May  hide  a  most  trying  heart-throe. 

The  wavelets  which  restless  are  skipping, 

Uniting  again  soon  to  part, 
Like  human  aims,  growing,  declining, 

Are  submerged  at  a  greater  wave's  start. 

And  yet  is  essential  each  billow, 

And  human  endeavor  doth  count, 
E'en  though  its  beginning  be  modest, 

The  crest  in  life's  stream  to  surmount. 
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Later  Poems 


The  pulse  beat,  the  swell,  and  the  heaving, 
Emotions  which  never  find  rest, 

God's  presence  proclaim  most  impressive, 
To  those  who  with  insight  are  blessed. 

We  judge  by  external  appearance, 
Neglecting  the  depth  to  explore, 

Of  men  and  of  swift-flowing  waters, 
Embraced  by  their  limiting  shore. 

The  snags  and  infirmities  hidden, 
The  shoals  and  the  fathomless  pits, 

We  notice  too  late  for  retreating 

When  fate  in  her  judgement-chair  sits. 

To  trust  in  a  stranger  unwisely, 
To  ride  on  a  stream  which  deceives, 

Is  courting  disaster,  which  greedy 
And  watchful,  its  spider-net  weaves. 

But  to  cling  to  the  tried  and  the  faithful, 
And  to  cherish  the  true  without  stint, 

Betokens  a  judgement  which  doubtless,  . 
Was  coined  in  fair  wisdom's  own  mint. 


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HOARDING 

Aye,  hoard  we  must  and  will,  all  times,  it  seems, 

(An  oft  misused  impulse).     One  hoards  the  beams 

Of  every  gladness,  and  e'er  strives  in  zeal 

To  wrest  from  Fate  its  sting,  while  his  ship's  keel 

Divides  the  clouds  which  ever  hang  in  gloom 

Above  most  men,  in  age  and  in  youth's  bloom. 

His  helping  hand,  which  tireless  imparts 

Kind  gifts,  is  potent  in  unselfish  arts. 

Each  tear  he  dries,  his  noble  soul  extends, 

And  to  his  countenance  new  sweetness  lends. 

His  sole  reward,  which  gratifies  beyond 

All  parallel,  he  finds  within  the  bond 

Which  chains  him  to  the  one  blessed  by  his  aid, 

And,  miser-like,  he  revels  in  the  shade 

Of  former  deeds.     Full  hundred-fold,  his  years 

Are  blessed  with  fruit,  of  Mercy's  golden  ears. 


Another  here  we  find,  who  hoards  his  grief, 
The  common  grief  of  all,  though  short  and  brief. 
He  magnifies,  with  artful  master-touch 
Each  tiring  pain,  not  recognized  as  such 
By  braver  men.     His  one  inglorious  aim, 
His  narrow  ruling  thought,  is  to  inflame 
Anew  the  dying  embers  of  despair. 
And  when  exhausted  his  own  grief  and  care, 
His  woeful  eye,  in  search  for  greener  fields, 
Dismays  his  friends,  whose  cheerful  aspect  yields 
Not  willingly,  yet,  like  the  mildewed  mist, 
His  presence  blights  each  joy :  naught  can  resist  - 
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What  his  reward?    Ah,  what  does  he  deserve? 
A  somber  life  can  scarce  from  darkness  swerve, 
God's  brightest  rays  are  not  for  one  who  hath 
A  gloomy  eye.     His  is  the  aftermath. 

Another  hoards  his  baseless,  vaunting  pride. 
In  channels  deep,  obscure,  it  e'er  doth  glide, 
By  none  discerned,  seen  only  by  his  eye, 
Which  ever  dreads  the  searching  probe  to  ply, 
For  fear  to  prick  a  bubble,  where  he  stored 
His  idle  dross,  by  him  alone  adored. 
Such  attributes  as  we  in  others  find 
Well  merited  call  forth  his  hatred  blind. 
His  only  aim  is  not  "E'er  to  outdo," 
But  "to  outshine"  the  common  earthly  crew. 
What  recompense  should  God  on  him  bestow  ? 
Whose  shallowness  doth  higher  aims  forgo  ? 
Enduring  fame  is  not  for  one  like  him ; 
A  glittering  outward  show,  his  hollow  whim 
Attracts  far  more  than  wisdom's  guiding  shield ; 
His  is  the  fruit-shorn,  empty,  stubblefield. 

The  last  of  all,  the  one  God  loves  the  least, 
Is  he  whose  greed  for  wealth  oft  shames  the  beast, 
Which,  when  its  gnawing  want  is  stilled  and  quenched, 
Gives  way  to  those  unfed.     While  he  retrenched 
The  scanty  means  of  those  whom  adverse  fate 
Left  in  his  blight'ning  reach.     Accumulate, 
Despite  the  laws  which  come  from  high  above, 
And  hoard  he  must,  e'en  at  the  cost  of  love, 
Which  turns  to  hate,  as  day  to  night  will  change. 
His  avarice  doth  all  his  friends  estrange ; 
He  rules  by  fear,  but  should  his  fortune  fall, 
He's  left  alone,  e'en  now  his  passion's  thrall. 
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While  others  sleep,  or  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
When  stronger  minds  for  light  and  wisdom  pray, 
His  sordid  thoughts  still  revel  o'er  his  gold, 
His  only  aim,  for  which  all  else  he  sold. 
A  fearful  scourge,  a  phantom  dark  with  gloom, 
Is  death  to  him  —  all  earth-born  mortals'  doom. 
The  thought  of  death,  like  wrathful  tempest's  roar, 
Strikes  his  declining  years  unto  the  core. 
How  can  God  one  remunerate  like  him, 
Whose  love  for  self  eclipsed  his  mental  trim  ? 
While  memories  of  better  men  redound? 
His  is  the  hopeless,  barren,  stony  ground. 


GRANDPAPA 

Grandpapa,  my  grandpapa, 
I'm  still  a  little  man,  but  ah, 

I'm  growing,  yes,  I'm  growing. 
Thy  knee,  I've  reached  it  long  ago, 
And  now  I'm  but  a  bit  below 
Your  elbow  when  it's  hanging  low, 

And  many  things  I'm  knowing. 

Grandpapa,  my  Grandpapa, 
Upon  your  knees  I'll  ride,  hurrah! 

How  do  I  love  careering! 
When  I  am  grown  as  tall  as  you, 
A  spur  I'll  buckle  on  my  shoe, 
And  ride  a  horse,  as  others  do, 

Not  faltering  nor  fearing. 

Grandpapa,  my  grandpapa, 
When  I  am  strong,  with  ax  and  saw, 
I'll  help  you  daily,  yearly. 
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I  want  to  do  all  you  do  now; 
I  want  to  learn,  oh,  show  me  how! 
A  book  to  write,  or  guide  a  plow, 
And  I  will  love  you  dearly. 

Grandpapa,  my  Grandpapa, 
Your  picture  on  my  slate  to  draw, 

A  joy  is,  and  a  pleasure. 
To  watch  each  twinkle  in  your  eye, 
To  see  your  smile,  doth  multiply 
My  joys,  which  sorrow's  clouds  defy 

I  snatch  each  passing  treasure. 


PURSES  AND   PATRIOTISM 

Purses  and  patriotism 

Are  much  alike  indeed, 
Although  no  catechism 

Taught  ever  such  a  creed. 

When  empty,  the  purses  are  carried 
Open  around  in  the  hand, 

But  filled  with  treasure  are  buried 
'Gainst  thieves  and  fiery  brand. 

Patriotism  resembles 

A  purse,  no  one  denies, 
The  superficial  trembles 

While  the  genuine  hidden  lies. 

Both  patriotism  and  purses, 
In  times  of  need  we  test, 

The  empty,  none  e'er  nurses, 
While  the  opulent  is  blest. 
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LET  THERE   BE  LIGHT 

Slowly  with  the  evening  shadows, 

Fades  and  dies  the  weary  day. 
Far  beyond  the  hills  and  meadows, 

Longing  for  his  next  relay, 
Sinks  the  Sun-god,  still  reflecting 

Sunbeams  blessed  with  warmth  and  life, 
But  the  gloom  of  night,  directing, 

Claims  its  right  in  stubborn  strife. 

Darkness,  in  its  greed  devouring, 

All  that  light  made  ever  clear, 
Must  recede,  though  often  lowering 

And  unwilling,  when  light's  sphere 
In  its  panoply  of  glory 

Shining  like  a  polished  plate, 
Rises  and  attacks  the  hoary 

Mist  before  Aurora's  gate. 

Likewise  in  the  spirit  human, 

Darkness  finds  a  lodging  place, 
When  our  wisdom  and  acumen 

Are  found  wanting  in  life's  race, 
Which  the  soul  of  every  creature 

Should  adorn  with  graces  rare, 
Instead  of  being,  mind  and  feature, 

Marked  as  lost  to  gloom's  despair. 

But  when  knowledge  comes  approaching, 
Strengthened  by  God's  own  essence, 

Ignorance,  before  encroaching, 
Now  must  stand  in  self-defense. 
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Slowly,  slowly,  yet  unfailing, 

Towards  the  ends  by  God  ordained, 
Hast'ning  here,  and  elsewhere  trailing, 

Knowledge  frees  the  mind  enchained. 

Knowledge  brings  us  joys,  enhancing, 

While  their  source  we  learn  to  love ; 
Knowledge  in  its  course  advancing 

Points  to  hope  and  light  above. 
Ignorance  and  darkness  tremble, 

Fearing  that  which  they  not  know, 
And  they  cling,  while  they  dissemble, 

To  all  transient  things  below. 


TO    GENTLE   KATE 

This  simple  lay,  devoid  of  art, 
A  tardy  tribute  of  the  heart, 

Whose  spell  of  silence  has  been  broken, 
I  do  inscribe  in  grateful  mood, 
To  pure  and  noble  womanhood, 

As  a,  alas,  deficient  token. 

And  if  I  could,  a  song  I'd  sing, 
The  nightingale's  tunes  rivaling 

In  sweetness  and  in  truth  and  power; 
And  if  the  gift,  thoughts  to  portray 
In  song  were  mine,  I'd  not  delay, 

But  touch  my  lute  this  very  hour. 

I'd  sing  their  praise,  whose  worth  I  bless, 
Who,  lacking  harshness,  still  possess, 
The  choicest  gift  which  heaven  sendeth, 
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To  lead  aright,  man's  forces  stern, 
Which,  though  they're  needful,  we  discern, 
Are  wanting  that  which  love  but  lendeth. 

Men  see  the  justice  of  a  thing, 
But  women  with  them  mercy  bring, 

The  remedy,  which,  when  all  faileth, 
Where  jarring  discord  doth  abound 
Or  where  the  cries  of  woe  resound, 

With  its  intrinsic  worth  prevaileth. 

In  youth,  if  they  are  led  aright, 
Their  countenance  reflects  the  light, 

Which  in  their  inmost  soul  is  beaming; 
And  like  the  flower  which  precedes 
The  coming  fruit,  their  aspect  leads, 

To  hopes  which  in  glad  hearts  are  teeming. 

Like  tender  buds  which  do  adorn, 
The  rosebush  in  the  early  morn, 

Before  the  sun  the  zenith  reaches; 
Like  blossoms  pure,  unspotted,  fair, 
Which  with  their  fragrance  fill  the  air, 

And  charming  like  the  bloom  of  peaches. 

And  later  on,  when  life's  demands 
Their  sphere  of  usefulness  expands 

As  wife  and  mother,  children  rearing, 
Self-sacrifice,  their  chosen  law, 
Calls  forth  our  gratitude  and  awe 

Toward  ways  most  gentle  and  endearing. 

And  when  rude  men,  whose  vain  dispute 
Oft  ends  in  war,  their  gains  compute, 
They  find  at  last,  when  they  must  settle, 
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That  not  the  grim,  opposing  host, 
But  their  own  wives  have  suffered  most, 
And  yet  retained  their  loyal  mettle. 

And  who  will  doubt  God's  final  aim, 
Whose  love,  the  all-embracing  flame, 

Triumphantly  in  woman  weaves? 
Doth  not  the  trend  which  they  pursue 
Bespeak  for  them  a  well  earned  due, 

In  realms  where  love  its  crown  achieves  ? 


CONSCIENCE,   THE   SAVIOR 

The  rushing  stream,  which  onward  speeds, 

With  skiff  and  bark, 
No  guidepost  in  its  course  e'er  needs, 

Nor  other  mark ; 
Yet  in  the  end  it  finds  its  goal, 
Since  nature  doth  all  things  control. 

And  thou,  enforced  by  reason's  guide, 

Which,  after  all, 
Is  but  a  staff  to  aid  thy  stride, 

Or  cause  thy  fall; 

Thou  shouldst  thy  conscience'  voice  ne'er  scorn, 
Whene'er  thy  staff  leaves  thee  forlorn. 

Thy  conscience,  framed  to  suit  thy  case, 

Leads  thee  to  God, 
And  mine,  although  less  rich  in  grace, 

Finds  fruitful  sod ; 
And  though  our  paths  apart  us  lead, 
We  both  no  other  guide  shall  need. 
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Thy  reason  may  lead  towards  the  truth, 

Thy  yearning  soul, 
While  mine,  misguided  in  my  youth, 

Lack's  wisdom's  dole. 
Yet  if  each  faithful  goes  his  way, 
Not  you  nor  I  can  go  astray. 

The  realm  of  truth,  none  can  invade, 

Not  sage  nor  fools, 
And  daily  see  we  doctrines  fade 

Of  former  schools. 
What  our  mind  as  truth  perceives, 
To  change,  an  endless  limit  leaves. 

Truth,  love,  and  life,  is  He  alone, 

Of  all  the  cause. 
And  we,  but  creatures  of  a  zone; 

Well  may  we  pause, 

Ere  we  proclaim,  from  doubtful  ground, 
That  we  the  precious  truth  have  found. 


JULY    FOURTH,    1895 

'Tis  true  the  fate 

Of  nations  strong,  rock-rooted  seeming, 

Is  doubtful  like  the  fate  of  man ; 
To-day  with  pride  our  visage  beaming, 

To-morrow,  in  despair  we  scan 
Our  fleeting  hopes,  still  feebly  gleaming, 

Which  join  destruction's  caravan. 

Vast  kingdoms  fell, 
Still  in  their  prime  and  utmost  power, 
A  prey  to  vices  grave,  severe. 
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They  fell  when  God  did  seem  to  shower 
His  blessings  on  their  self-closed  ear; 

They  fell  not  by  the  hands  that  scour 
The  earth,  and  fill  our  hearts  with  fear. 

They  were  brought  low 

By  foes  within  their  hearts  and  home, 

Who  stealthily  did  undermine 
The  corner-stone  on  which  the  dome 

Of  truth  and  happiness  doth  shine. 
To  enervation  in  its  roam, 

They  fell  a  prey  in  their  decline. 

Let  us  all  pray, 

To-day,  sincerely,  that  our  land 

Be  spared  for  e'er  from  such  a  fate; 
Let  us  all  pray  that  virtue's  band 

Entwine  our  people,  brave  and  great ; 
And  that  dissention's  blasting  brand 

Be  banished  from  our  nation's  gate. 

Let  us  all  hope 

That  time  to  our  strength  may  add, 

As  years  and  centuries  pass  by ; 
And  that  the  tree  in  hope  be  clad 

On  which  our  fathers  did  rely, 
The  tree  of  liberty,  which  had 

A  charm  for  all  'neath  freedom's  sky. 

Oh,  native  land! 

May  ne'er  thy  honor,  fame,  subside, 

As  long  as  man  on  earth  may  dwell, 
But  may  it,  like  the  rising  tide, 

Constantly  increase  and  swell; 
Aye,  to  thy  fame,  we  point  with  'pride, 

Thine  enemies,  we  will  repel. 
no 


Later  Poems 


LIFE 

Like  a  whirling  Charybdis  without  a  rest, 
Without  repose  or  contentment  blessed, 

Like  grains  of  gladness  with  pounds  of  hope, 
And  tons  of  care,  all  mixed  together ; 
Like  lowering  clouds  in  cheerless  weather, 

Which  hide  the  truth  for  which  we  grope : 

Like  a  problem  unsolved  and  undefined, 
Like  the  goddess  of  Justice,  who  is  blind, 

Like  a  streak  of  joy  in  sorrow's  home, 
That  comes  to  mock  each  station  and  cast ; 
Like  a  link  that  joins  our  future  and  past, 

In  the  chain  of  fate  and  doom  to  come : 

Like  a  chimerical  were-wolf,  which  haunts  our  dreams, 
Like  a  fluttering  sunbeam,  which  is,  or  seems, 

A  ray  of  wisdom  which  springs  from  the  fount 
That  flows  where  He  dwelleth,  whom  we  revere; 
Like  a  flash  of  intuition  that'll  disappear 

Ere  we  can  grasp  the  thought  profound  — 
Such  is  Life. 


HARMONY  IN  NATURE 

The  twilight  gives  way  when  the  sun-ray  approaches, 
And  the  dew  seeks  the  chalice  at  evening's  prime ; 

The  song-bird's  blithe  carrol,  when  darkness  encroaches, 
Upon  the  day's  richness,  is  hushed  for  the  time. 

Each  fills  in  its  turn,  and  in  its  own  season, 

The  duties  assigned  by  a  loftier  reason. 

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The  forest's  calm  voice,  and  the  rills'  rhythmic  babble, 
In  harmonies  blending,  invite  us  to  rest ; 

The  web-foot,  e'er  eager  to  dive  and  to  dabble, 
Enlivens  the  outlook,  enhancing  the  zest. 

The  pond  ever  courting  the  moonbeams  so  bright, 

Is  a  spring  of  deep  languor,  and  a  source  of  delight. 

The  mountains,  with  summits  the  clouds  overreaching, 
Strike  awe  to  the  minds  of  the  brave  and  devout, 

And  at  their  side  nestles  a  shepherd's  hut,  preaching 
Of  hope  and  of  faith  in  its  sheltered  redoubt. 

The  swift  rushing  waters,  keep  time  with  the  storm, 

Pulsating,  they  hasten  their  tasks  to  perform. 

Verdure  embellished,  the  meadows  embolden 
The  rodent  to  venture  his  realms  to  explore ; 

The  squirrel,  improving  the  time  rare  and  golden, 
Enriches  with  judgement,  his  well-guarded  store. 

The  bee,  by  her  secret  impulses  impelled, 

Doth  gather  that  portion,  from  others  withheld. 

The  elements,  too,  in  their  turn  ever  changing, 
Bring  home  to  our  vision,  sweet  nature's  accord, 

For  while  the  chilled  snowflakes  await  their  arranging 
In  sheets  of  white  zephyr,  she  elsewhere  doth  hoard 

The  vapors  yet  liquid,  which  rise  to  descend, 

To  keep  all  in  tune,  or  discordance  to  mend. 


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RULES  AND   FOOLS 

Fools  need  rules,  and  rules  make  fools ; 

And  both  will  rhyme  together. 
Yet  rules  are  often  handy  tools, 

'Mid  frowning  skies  or  pleasant  weather. 

The  leader  makes  his  rules  to  suit 
The  work  which  doth  amuse  him, 

The  follower  so  sly  and  cute, 
Doth  follow,  or  abuse  him. 

The  former  sees  more  sides  than  one, 

In  every  thing  or  question, 
The  latter,  of  the  common  run, 

Has  mental  indigestion. 

An  artist  may  achieve  great  fame 
With  rules  quite  new  and  cunning ; 

Then  comes  a  critic,  weak  and  tame, 
Filled  full  and  overrunning, 

With  vile  abuse  because  his  master 
Has  left  the  worn-out  highways; 

Yet  always  dies  this  doom-forecaster 
In  fame's  forgotten  by-ways. 

A  sorry  lot,  these  knights  of  letters, 

Who,  like  the  ivy  creeper, 
Cling  for  a,  living  to  their  betters, 

For  want  of  stay  or  sleeper. 


Later  Poems 


Their  breath  of  venom,  too,  resembles 
Said  creeper's  blight'ning  action ; 

Yet  harmless  like  the  leaf  which  trembles, 
Are  they  in  their  distraction. 

Aye,  fools  need  rules,  and  rules  make  fools, 
And  when  they  meet  and  mingle, 

You  have  the  acme  of  all  schools, 
The  critic  plain  and  single. 


THE   ARCHITECT 

(To  T.  H.  Conner.) 

Doubtless,  in  recesses  hidden 

In  thy  mind,  but  known  to  thee, 
Thoughts  arise,  and  stay  unbidden 

And  are  seldom  prone  to  flee. 
When  in  need  of  cheer,  and  tired, 

In  cohorts  they  seem  to  rise, 
And,  like  clouds  by  tempests  sired, 

Aim  your  peace  to  sacrifice. 

Doubtless,  thou  hast  known  the  trials 

Which  the  striving  mind  beset, 
And  hast  often  drunk  from  vials 

Filled  with  envy  and  regret ; 
The  former  gathered  up  and  hoarded 

(Speaking  in  a  metaphor), 
By  the  grudger,  who  recorded 

Outward  seeming  —  nothing  more. 
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Pigmies,  gauged  with  thine  own  measure, 

Reaching  scarcely  to  thy  knee, 
Sit  behind  a  safe  embrasure 

In  stern  judgment  over  thee. 
Failing  in  their  minds  benighted 

To  esteem  your  trying  task, 
Blind  to  merit,  yet  delighted 

In  your  hard-earned  fame  to  bask. 

Such  are  those  whose  envy  blightens 

Many  a  blossom  in  your  breast, 
And  regret  your  heartstrings  tightens 

That  'tis  all  so  manifest. 
Burdens  which  but  vex  and  tire 

Every  leader  must  sustain, 
'Though  the  fruit  thou  dost  acquire, 

Is  no  less  thy  neighbor's  gain. 

All  thy  life  may  be  devoted 

To  the  betterment  of  man, 
Yet  those  who  on  follies  doted 

With  distain  your  doings  scan ; 
Ah,  regret,  like  pigeons  homing, 

Leaves  thee  only  to  come  back, 
And  thy  weary  soul,  e'er  roaming, 

Seeks  for  kindred  spirit's  track ; 

Spirits  who,  in  walks  more  equal 

To  thine  own,  are  wont  to  move ; 
Spirits  who  —  this  is  no  sequel 

But  the  gist  I  hope  to  prove  — 
Who,  I  said,  devoid  of  passion, 

Thy  endeavors  know  to  prize, 
And  not,  as  is  modern  fashion, 

Glittering  trifles  eulogize. 


Later  Poems 


Painters  who,  in  skill  surpassing 

All  that  liveth  can  portray ; 
Who  their  thoughts  on  canvas  massing, 

Show  their  fancy's  choice  display ; 
They,  like  thou,  whose  thoughts  are  leading 

Far  beyond  all  mortal  ken, 
In  their  works  of  art  exceeding, 

Preach  a  sermon  to  all  men. 

Sculptors,  patient,  slowly  toiling, 

Carve  the  marble  dead  and  cold, 
But,  O  wonder,  Death,  recoiling, 

Flees,  and  charmed,  we  all  behold, 
Quickened  by  the  artist's  cunning 

(Architects  have  done  the  same). 
Life  which  flows  to  overrunning, 

Almost  breathing  forth  his  name. 

Music's  masters,  who,  exalted, 

Soar  in  realms  by  few  attained, 
Who  proceed  where  others  halted, 

Are  thy  kindred,  and  have  gained 
For  themselves  renown  unfading, 

For  the  world  enraptured  joy, 
While  the  sounds,  the  ear  invading, 

Reined  and  bridled,  they  employ. 

Poets,  sensitive  to  beauty, 

Touched  by  all  which  joy  or  pain 
Doth  present,  oft  rise  in  duty 

Wrongs  to  right,  or  peace  to  gain ; 
And,  untrodden  paths  pursuing, 

Sway  the  hosts  which  force  withstood, 
With  a  simple  song,  subduing 

Wrath,  thus  turned  from  bad  to  good. 
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Thou,  like  poets,  ever  reaching 

In  your  ever-fashioning  mind 
For  new  objects  —  thou  art  teaching 

Not  in  words,  but  forms  refined. 
And  congenial  comrades  brighten, 

In  their  thoughtful  intercourse, 
Thy  spare  moments,  and  thus  lighten 

Loads,  which  thee  from  joy  divorce. 

Leading  minds  in  each  profession 

Bear  the  brunt  which  weaklings  shun, 
Who  —  to  use  a  trite  expression  — 

Are  found  only  "on  the  run." 
Yet  the  solace  which  thy  straining 

Aimed  toward  ends  both  good  and  high, 
In  itself  contains,  e'er  gaining, 

Shall  increase  and  multiply. 

Treats  are  placed  within  thy  grasping, 

Which  thy  critics  ne'er  esteem, 
Who,  content  with  dross,  are  clasping 

Closely  to  their  bosom's  seam 
Chattels  which  in  bulk  commanding 

Fill  their  sole  and  only  thought, 
While  before  thy  mind  are  standing 

High  ideals,  all  self-wrought. 

Ah,  Regret!     Your  stings  are  trying! 

When  the  best  thou  did'st  produce 
In  thy  course,  with  others  vicing, 

Brings  a  harvest  of  abuse. 
Still,  thine  is  the  greatest  blessing 

Which  the  living  ever  cheers; 
Thine  the  knowledge  thee  impressing, 

That  thou  art  known  by  thine  own  peers. 
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REASONING 

Some  folk,  evading  logic, 

Can  prove  that  white  is  black, 
And  others,  that  the  blackest 

Doth  yet  in  darkness  lack. 
Some  see,  and  see  it  plainly, 

That  sunshime  is  but  rain. 
Ten  reason  with  their  wishes, 

While  one  consults  his  brain. 

Some  folks  reach  their  conclusions, 

As  Reynard  doth  the  hen ; 
In  other  words,  cupidity 

Doth  lead  them  from  their  den. 
They  argue  that  the  useful, 

If  taken,  leaves  no  stain. 
Ten  reason  with  their  purses, 

While  one  consults  his  brain. 

Some  claim  that  God's  existence, 

Is  but  a  myth,  a  dream; 
Yet  swear  that  ghosts  and  phantoms 

In  truth  exist,  not  seem. 
They  manifest  they  see  not 

While  bound  to  error's  bane. 
Ten  lean  on  superstition, 

While  one  consults  his  brain. 

Some  think  that  sweets  and  dainties 

Are  treats  without  alloy ; 
And  others  call  their  bottle 

Their  foremost  source  of  joy. 
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Some  smoke  and  chew  tobacco, 

And  call  it  only  gain. 
Ten  reason  with  their  stomach, 

While  one  consults  his  brain. 


PROGRESSIVE   EGOTISM  AND   ITS   REBUKE 

Said  the  plant,  in  accents  taunting, 
"Mineral,  thou  shapeless  clod, 

Neither  life  nor  death  thou  knowest ; 
But  I  rise  above  the  sod. 

And  I  herewith  do  avow, 

I  am  better  far  than  thou!" 

Said  the  beast,  "Plant,  how  I  pity 
All  thy  vain  and  baseless  pride ; 

Look  at  me,  thou  fettered  being, 
How  I  leap  o'er  chasms  wide. 

Stir  thou  dost  —  a  storm-forced  bow  — 

I  am  better  far  than  thou." 

Next  spoke  man,  with  scorn  unblushing, 

For  his  color  did  forbid : 
"  I've  a  soul,  and  thou  must  perish, 

And  beneath  my  coffin-lid 
I  shall  live.     Thou  must  allow, 
I  am  better  far  than  thou." 

Spoke  the  white  man,  "Souls  are  trifles, 
Which  no  white  man  need  respect, 

And,  enforced  by  sword  and  cannon, 
I  my  proper  dues  collect, 

Which  shall  grace  no  colored  brow  — 

I  am  better  far  than  thou." 
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Later  Poems 


Lastly  spoke  the  Anglo-Saxon, 
"White  or  black,  Mongol  or  Slav, 

All  are  subject  to  my  bidding, 
Since  I  pounds  and  dollars  have. 

I  proclaim  it  here  and  now, 

I  am  better  far  than  thou!" 

Patiently  God  heard  and  listened, 

To  this  thoughtless,  idle  cant; 
And  at  last  he  spoke  serenely, 

"Man  and  beast,  and  clod  and  plant, 
All  do  live,  and  naught  can  perish, 

Save  the  thought  of  self  and  gain, 
For  my  breath,  my  soul  eternal, 

Doth  each  atom  entertain. 

"Man  to  me  is  what  a  twig  is 

To  the  tree  on  which  it  grows ; 
And  the  clod  on  which  man  tramples, 

Like  a  leaf  in  my  sight  glows ; 
Large  or  small,  each  thing  or  creature 

Fills  the  place  by  me  assigned, 
And  in  worth  all  things  are  equal, 

If  with  Me,  the  whole,  combined. 

"But  a  thing  on  self  depending, 

While  abusing  fellow  clods, 
Calls  for  pity,  not  for  anger, 

For  it  plants  self-chast'ning  rods. 
Said  not  he,  my  foremost  prophet, 

'He  who  humbles  self  shall  rise'? 
And  self-seekers  in  their  blindness, 

Serve  themselves  quite  otherwise. 

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"I  can  change  the  state  of  beings; 

Sage  to-day  in  wisdom  dressed, 
Thou  to-morrow  mayst  encumber 

As  a  clod,  earth's  patient  breast. 
But  each  state  with  life  is  blessed, 

In  a  more  or  less  degree, 
And  all  things  are  good  and  perfect, 

Since  they  all  belong  to  me. 

"Senses  five  has  man,  the  foremost 

Of  My  creature's  on  earth's  globe, 
While  his  lesser  fellow  beings, 

From  the  whale  to  the  microbe, 
Are  less  gifted,  yet  are  doing 

All  that  I  from  them  expect, 
If  their  gifts  they  use  untiring, 

And  speak  their  own  dialect. 

"If  another  sense  were  added, 

Man,  to  those  which  now  thee  serve 
Wouldst  thou  not  in  righteous  horror, 

From  your  present  folly  swerve  ? 
Yet  e'en  ten,  all  potent  senses, 

Could  my  nature  not  decide ; 
For  the  fathomless  to  fathom, 

I  alone  am  qualified." 


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TRUTH 

Oh  friend,  ne'er  say,  "This  is  the  truth." 
Your  terms  be  qualified,  forsooth : 

In  such  a  plain  construction, 
We  may  employ  both  science,  art ; 
And  see  a  thing  from  end  to  start, 

Still  err  in  its  deduction. 

The  blind  ne'er  sees  the  lightnings  flash, 
The  deaf 's  unfeeling  to  its  crash ; 

And  those  whose  other  senses 
Are  paralyzed,  would  doubtless  claim 
That  sound  and  light  alone  e'er  came 

With  trusty  evidences. 

A  sixth  or  seventh  sense  might  teach 
Us  lessons  new,  yet  our  reach 

Would  still  embrace  but  little ; 
And  what  we  learn  through  mortal  means, 
Of  truth  beyond  death's  darkened  screens, 

Is  less  than  jot  or  tittle. 

Delusion  is  the  foremost  relish, 

On  which  we  thrive,  which  we  embellish 

Most  diligent  forever. 
It  flatters  us,  its  words  ne  'er  mincing, 
Although  untrue,  they  are  convincing, 

Most  cunning,  and  most  clever. 

Truth,  fathomless,  did  e'er  invite 
To  introspection,  and  excite 
All  knowledge-thirsting  sages. 
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Her  charms,  most  subtle,  when  once  known, 
Are  fatal  to  delusions  throne, 

Where  short-lived  falsehood  rages. 

But  truth  in  part,  not  truth  complete, 
Can  we  conceive.     Not  always  sweet 

Yet  wholesome  truths  we're  learning. 
Eternal  life  is  her's.     Her  path 
Leads  on  to  him,  who  ever  hath 

An  ear  for  our  yearning. 


DOES   DRESS   MAKE  THE   MAN? 

When  thou  thy  finest  suit  hast  on, 
And  cast  aside  thy  plainer  garb, 
In  which  to  meet  the  thorn  and  barb 

Which  toil  requires  thou  shouldst  don, 
Then  bows  to  thee,  the  fickle  crowd, 
And  sings  thy  praise,  at  least  aloud. 

And  when  again  thou  changest  dress, 
The  churls  who  did  upon  thee  fawn, 
True  to  themselves,  betray  the  spawn 

From  which  they  sprang  in  giddiness, 
By  heaping  on  thee,  black  abuse, 
While  wiser  minds,  worth's  standards  use. 

The  dress  which  fits  the  circumstance 
The  wearer's  saneness  e'er  reflects ; 
And  he  who  in  vain  pride  expects 

The  world's  good  will  thus  to  enhance 
Will  find  when  he  achievements  counts, 
That  ten  times  naught,  to  naught  amounts. 
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SUNSHINE  IN  THE  HEART 

The  hardships  which  each  one  encounters, 
The  trials  which  beset  us  here, 
The  woe  and  sorrow  which  forever 
Pursue  each  mortal  in  his  sphere, 
They  all  must  vanish  and  depart, 
If  we  have  sunshine  in  the  heart. 

The  clouds  which  threat'ning  o'er  us  hover, 
The  storm,  whose  fury  doth  appall, 
The  chilling  blasts,  all  else  congealing, 
And  evils  which  us  all  befall, 
Are  impotent  right  from  the  start, 
If  we  have  sunshine  in  the  heart. 

A  trying  loss,  pain,  and  disease 

We  overcome,  and  wisdom  gain, 

Instead  of  pining  evermore 

For  things  from  which  we  must  abstain ; 

And  we  avoid  grim  fate's  best  dart 

If  we  have  sunshine  in  the  heart. 

By  stern  decrees  we  must  abide, 

Unalterable  in  their  course, 

And  folly  it  would  be  to  mourn 

For  things  which  will  not  yield  to  force ; 

All  wounds  will  heal,  though  now  they  smart, 

If  we  have  sunshine  in  the  heart. 

Vain  pride  to  its  own  level  sinking, 
Cannot  affect  a  heart  which  fills, 
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Brave  and  undaunted,  all  its  duties, 
And  meets  with  courage,  all  life's  ills. 
And  we  disaster's  aims  will  thwart, 
If  we  have  sunshine  in  the  heart. 


THE   ECHO 

Ye  cataracts  roaring,  ye  brooklets  and  hills! 
Ye  winds  unencumbered  by  sorrows  and  ills! 

Ye  meadows  and  flowers  increasing  and  blessed! 
Ye  birds  and  ye  sunbeams,  whose  aim  and  whose  end, 
To  mock  the  dark  shadows,  I  truly  defend! 

What  state  of  the  mind  will  ever  bring  rest  ? 
Quoth  the  echo :     "  When  blessed." 

Ye  sculptors,  whose  chisel  your  thoughts  can  portray, 
Ye  painters,  though  human,  who  seldom  go  stray, 

Whose  aim  is  perfection  in  beauty's  own  mart, 
Ye  poets,  though  humble,  whose  magic  subdues 
E'en  man,  the  ferocious,  who  loves  to  abuse ; 

Where  will,  when  all  f aileth,  I  surely  find  art  ? 
Quoth  the  echo :     "  In  heart." 

Ye  impotent  idlers,  ye  drones  in  the  hive, 
Oft  diligent  nature,  unable  to  dive 

In  wisdom's  deep  ocean,  but  willing  to  lurk ; 
Your  indolent  habits,  of  evil  the  source, 
Are  wanting  in  something  to  keep  the  right  course, 
Which  even  enriches  the  steed  of  the  Turk. 
Quoth  the  echo :     "  'Tis  work." 
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Ye  rich,  yet  unhappy,  and  ye  who  despair, 
One's  ailing  is  fullness,  the  other  one's  share, 

Though  strong  and  in  vigor,  is  ever  to  cope 
With  want,  and  the  element's  changing  design ; 
Ye  youthful  and  happy,  and  ye  who  decline, 

What  is  the  most  precious  in  life's  changing  scope  ? 
Quoth  the  echo :    "  Tis  hope." 

Ye  spirits  e'er  restless,  in  search  for  the  new, 
Like  old  Ahasverus,  the  Wandering  Jew, 

Who  aimless  his  lifetime  in  wayfaring  spent, 
What  is  it  that's  lacking,  and  causes  unrest  ? 
And  robs  ye  of  joys,  which  belong  to  the  blest  ? 

And  oft  like  a  dagger,  your  heart-strings  doth  rent  ? 
Quoth  the  echo:    "Content." 

Ye  dwellers  of  Northland,  Equator's  gay  host, 
Ye  lads  and  ye  lasses,  of  highland  and  coast, 

Ye  parents,  e'er  sending  petitions  above, 
Embracing  your  kindred,  dependent  and  weak, 
Ye  children  e'er  yearning  —  what  is  it  all  seek, 

What  is  the  enchantment,  whose  symbol  the  dove  ? 
Quoth  the  echo :    "  'Tis  love." 


AS  WORTHLESS  AS   DUST 

As  worthless  as  dust,  says  the  ignorant  man, 
When  a  thing  of  no  value  his  eye  doth  scan ; 
For  the  thought  that  dust  has  no  value  at  all 
Is  fixed  in  his  mind,  and  then,  withal, 
An  object  so  common,  so  cheap  and  unprized, 
Seems  worthless  to  him,  and  is  despised. 
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But  let  us  look  closer,  and  carefully  weigh 
The  value  of  dust  —  or  call  it  clay  — 
For  clay  or  dust  is  the  substance  of  life 
That  builds  our  body  in  peace  and  strife ; 
And  to  dust  will  return,  our  flesh  and  bone, 
For  all  that  liveth,  dust  claims  his  own. 

Dust,  which  to  our  soles  did  cleave  and  cling, 
Is  blooming  to-day  in  the  flowers  of  spirng ; 
And  to-morrow  the  bees,  so  busy,  discreet, 
Will  draw  from  the  calyx  the  honey  so  sweet. 
And  you,  dear  readers,  consume  their  prey, 
The  honey  from  flowers,  the  product  of  clay. 

This  circuit  continues  in  ceaseless  haste, 

For  nature  works  steady,  and  knows  no  waste. 

Your  body  of  to-day,  long  ere  you're  dead, 

Has  exchanged  every  atom  —  the  tears  you  shed 

Will  rise  to  the  sky,  and  fall  as  rain, 

And  thus  reproduce  your  equal  again. 

As  worthless  as  dust,  says  the  ignorant  man : 

But  the  research  of  the  wise,  to  whom  nature's  plan 

Has  been  revealed,  can  see  that  dust 

Is  a  mighty  factor,  before  whom  all  must 

In  reverence  bow,  for  dust  is  king, 

The  brains  and  sinew  of  everything. 


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REVENGE 

"Revenge,"  he  cried,  and  passion-swayed,  he  yearned 
Each  wrong  sustained,  by  greater  wrong  to  square ; 

Yet  soon  he  found  the  only  thing  he  earned 
Was  not  content,  but  strife  his  growing  share. 

And  he  perceived  that  on  each  battle-ground, 

New  enemies  upon  his  doings  frowned. 

At  last  he  said,  "  'Tis  vain  with  common  arms, 

Antagonists  as  well  equipped  as  I 
Thus  to  attack.    Not  hate,  but  love's  sweet  charms 

Henceforth  all  my  opponents  shall  defy. 
To  weapons,  such  as  heretofore  employed, 
I'll  trust  no  more,  and  be  no  more  annoyed. 

1  'I'll  strike  clear  home,  with  weapons  which  increase 
In  strength  and  force,  if  used  against  our  foes ; 

I'll  aim,  henceforth,  my  better  self  to  please, 
And  to  subdue  my  passions  in  their  throes. 

Revenge  I'll  have,  and  sated  my  desire, 

I'll  every  night  in  peace  and  calm  retire." 

And  thus  he  gained  his  end,  and  humbled  those 
Who  never  yield  when  yielding  means  defeat ; 

And  thus  he  proved  alike  4:o  friend  and  foes, 
That  love  sent  forth,  with  love  doth  ever  meet ; 

And  when  revenge  the  theme  is  of  the  hour, 

He  tells  his  tale,  a  tale  of  love's  great  power. 


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THE   BREATH   OF   GOD 

God  made  Adam  of  clay,  and  blew  His  breath  into  him,  giving  him  a 
soul. —  Genesis. 

God's  breath  goes  forth,  a  thousand  babes  are  born, 
And  countless  beasts  and  plants  to  life  are  brought; 

God's  breath  inhaled,  of  life  again  are  shorn 
Those  creatures  who,  like  one-day  flies,  are  wrought 

To  fill  a  moment's  space  within  time's  sea, 

And  then  return,  yet  never  cease  to  be. 

God's  changing  breath,  which  life  or  death  unties, 
As  seen  by  men,  all  things  doth  regulate ; 

With  endless  change,  the  changeless  one  supplies 
And  aims  the  offspring  of  his  breath  to  sate. 

He  gives  His  own  to  His,  and  all  retains ; 

His  one  hand's  loss,  the  other  fills  with  gains. 

In  future  times,  towards  other  worlds  exhaled, 
I'd  fain  go  forth,  progressing  on  my  way; 

And  since  on  earth,  in  many  things  I've  failed, 
I  still  may  hope,  my  frailties'  course  to  stay, 

And  to  receive,  equipped  by  greater  means, 

Truth's  greater  gifts,  now  hid  by  weakness'  screens. 


OF  \ 

f   UNIVERSITY  \ 

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THE   BROWN  MAN'S   BURDEN 

With  apologies  to  Rudyard  Kipling. 
(Written  during  the  Russo-Japanese  War,  1904.) 

Take  up  the  Brown  Man's  burden, 

Since  ye  to  lift  have  stooped, 
And  teach  the  pale  intruder 

On  whom  your  hosts  have  swooped, 
That  white  or  dark  or  yellow 

Is  equal  in  God's  sight, 
And  that  ye  have  the  justice 

And  valor  in  this  fight. 

Take  up  the  Brown  Man's  burden 

Without  undue  delay, 
And  send  the  hords  of  robbers 

Upon  their  homeward  way. 
Show  Russia  and  England 

And  Germany  and  France 
And  other  tribes  as  selfish 

Your  sternest  countenance. 


Take  up  the  Brown  Man's  burden, 

Which  means  the  white  man's  gun, 
And  shoot,  when  reason  faileth, 

Until  your  foe  doth  run  — 
A  lesson  in  mild  manners, 

As  cowardice  appears, 
Therefore,  strike  hard  and  harder, 

Draw  blood,  and  even  tears. 
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Take  up  the  Brown  Man's  burden, 

Your  manful  days  draw  nigh ; 
Your  years  of  patient  labor, 

Approved  are  they,  on  high. 
Yet  childish  are  your  doings, 

Seen  by  exploiter's  eyes, 
Therefore,  assert  your  manhood, 

And  with  your  burden  rise. 

Take  up  the  Brown  Man's  burden, 

Shirk  not  the  urgent  task, 
And  ye,  whom  God's  peace  favored, 

Shalt  now  in  honor  bask. 
'Tis  honor,  wealth,  and  station, 

Which  here  on  earth  prevails ; 
Not  peace,  nor  virtue's  striving, 

If  weighed  on  earthly  scales. 

Take  up  the  Brown  Man's  burden, 

Forget  your  peaceful  aims, 
Until  brute  force  has  conquered, 

Alas,  in  brutish  games. 
The  wise  to  throw,  takes  wisdom, 

And  force  to  force  doth  yield, 
And  mirrors  are  to  blindness 

An  unproductive  field. 

Take  up  the  Brown  Man's  burden, 
Repulse  the  white  man's  greed, 
And  when  he's  down  and  humbled, 

In  ways  less  stern  proceed. 
Your  words,  when  ye  have  punished 

The  selfish  and  profane, 
Will  weigh  like  words  inspired, 

And  peace  again  will  reign. 


Later  Poems 


SPRING 

Of  butterflies,  of  blooming  flowers, 
Of  clouds  and  sunshine  should  I  sing ; 

Of  birds,  of  bees,  of  April  showers  — 
In  fact,  of  each  awaking  thing, 
For  it  is  spring. 

Yet  speechless  stand  I,  and  admire 
The  matchless  forms  of  nature's  mold, 

Which,  could  I  say  all  I  desire, 
Would  fill  a  book,  yet  leave  half  told, 
What  I  behold. 

My  ear,  if  true  to  nature's  plans, 
May  aid  the  search  which  I  pursue ; 

My  eye  the  surface  also  scans, 
But  fails  to  grasp  the  meaning  true 
Of  all  I  view.    . 

By  what  I  see,  I  the  unseen 
To  judge  —  alas,  in  vain  —  essay, 

For  all  the  knowledge  which  I  glean 
Of  Him,  the  author  of  each  day, 
Doth  me  betray. 

Each  of  his  creatures  may  perceive 

Another  side  of  everything ; 
Yet  all  do  err,  if  they  believe 

They  see  the  whole,  as  it  doth  spring 

From  nature's-  king. 
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He  who  sees  all,  doth  all  create 

With  change,  the  tool  at  his  command ; 

And  we,  who  our  senses  sate, 
Perceive,  but  seldom  understand, 
The  things  at  hand. 

'Tis  best  that  we  all  times  rejoice, 
For  finding  much  which  us  may  cheer ; 

In  ringing  tones,  in  silent  voice, 
Serene  to  thee,  to  me  austere, 
God  speaketh  here. 


MY  HOBBY 

Manifold  are  the  devices 

Which  fate  in  its  whim  doth  employ 
To  lure  to  content  the  yearning  heart,  bent 

To  play  with  a  hobby  or  toy. 

0  youth,  not  forgotten,  though  vanished 
Are  thy  pleasures,  to  memory  banished. 

The  toys  of  my  childhood  discarded, 

Which  cheered  me  when  all  else  did  fail ; 

1  still  firmly  cling  to  another  plaything, 

'Tis  my  hobby,  so  feeble  and  frail. 
I'd  gallop,  aye,  gallop  forever, 
Were  the  poor  little  thing  but  more  clever. 

I  feed  it  with  morsels  of  wisdom, 

Alas,  but  a  second  hand  food, 
Which  father  to  son,  in  this  world's  changing  run, 

Bequeathes,  oft  but  half  understood. 
I  pet  it  and  nurse  it  with  care, 
Yet  often  my  share  is  despair. 


Later  Poems 


The  longer  I  search  for  perfection 
With  resolute,  quickening  stride, 

The  farther,  it  seems,  are  its  joy-giving  beams 
Removed  from  my  fruit-wanting  side. 

All  knowledge,  book-learning  inclusive, 

Oft  seems,  like  a  mirage,  delusive. 

Ah,  wert  thou,  dear  hobby,  Pegasus, 
No  longer  I'd  mourn  and  repine. 

In  rapture  I'd  steep,  and  in  glee  overleap 
The  verge  of  my  narrow  confine. 

Return,  O  conceit  of  my  childhood, 

To  me,  in  life's  woe-sprinkled  wildwood. 


CHANGE,   NOT   REST 

When  death,  who  ne'er  slackens  his  far-reaching  stride, 

Reduces  a  victim  and  ends  his  career ; 
When  man,  the  frail  bantling,  the  thrall  of  his  pride, 

Has  ended  his  doings  on  this  earthly  sphere : 
We  say  and  repeat  it,  and  ever  attest, 
"Peace  to  his  ashes,  he  now  is  at  rest." 

But  rest,  even  God  in  His  workings  doth  shun, 
Although  the  Eternal  need  time  not  to  spare ; 

And  change  is  the  thread  which  through  all  things  doth  run, 
On  earth,  in  the  heavens,  and  everywhere. 

Rest  and  relapse  are  of  kindred  import, 

And  both  are  death's  handmaids,  two  of  a  cohort. 

The  matter,  still  active,  but  hastens  its  change, 

When  freed  from  the  trammels  which  life  doth  control ; 

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And  each  of  the  atoms  itself  doth  arrange 

In  changed  relations  to  the  all  and  the  whole. 
And  rest  vainly  enters  with  change  to  contest, 
For  change  is  God's  servant,  the  foremost  and  best. 

In  change,  when  all  else  us  doth  leave  in  despair, 
We  find  recreation  and  solace  to  soothe ; 

And  when  we  return  to  the  every-day  lair, 

We  find  we  have  cheated  time's  e'er  gnawing  tooth ; 

Yet  must  we  admit  that  the  comfort  thus  found, 

The  soul  healeth  first,  next  the  matter  around. 

And  why  should  the  soul,  after  death,  not  partake 
Of  the  hope,  which  in  change,  ever  springs  up  anew  ? 

And  why  should  the  spirit,  like  matter,  not  slake 
Its  longing  for  change,  and  the  future  to  view  ? 

Are  the  atoms  unconscious,  do  we  judge  aright  ? 

Yet  surely  our  spirit  outwings  the  dark  night. 

I  pray  not  for  rest,  but  for  change,  and  a  chance 
To  view  in  the  future,  God's  wonders  in  turn ; 

I  pray  for  the  insight  which  e'er  doth  enhance 
The  value  of  all  in  this  earthly  sojourn. 

I  pray  for  repose,  which  the  child  is  of  change ; 

But  rest  everlasting  seems  a  punishment  strange. 


Later  Poems 


THE  NIGHT 

When  the  birds  retire 
To  their  roost  in  the  spire, 

And  the  purple  hue  of  the  day  declines, 
And  the  light 

Of  the  moon,  the  hills  entwines ; 
We  call  it  night. 

When  the  bats  and  the  owls 
Begin  their  prowls ; 

When  the  spirits  of  darkness  their  wings  unfold, 
Far  and  near, 

And  the  voices  of  the  dusk  our  ears  behold, 
Husky  and  drear ; 

When  a  spectral  shade 
Will  come  and  fade 

And  reappear,  us  to  dismay 
And  terrify ; 

When  Luna  hides,  our  fancy's  play 
Will  multiply. 

When  Morpheus  Rex 
Our  dreams  perplex, 

And  our  spirit  leads  us  far  away, 
And  on  its  flight 

Meets  hosts  of  phantoms  in  array, 
We  call  it  night. 


136 


Later  Poems 


ETERNAL   PUNISHMENT  A  FAILURE 

A  pig  which  in  blindness  is  groping, 
May  heedless,  ill-guided  proceed, 

Despoiling  a  thing  of  great  value, 
Assigned  it  to  succor  in  need. 

And  yet,  who  would  punish  the  creature, 
Whose  failing  excuses  the  wrong, 

Whose  fault  is  a  logical  sequel 
Which  to  the  infirm  doth  belong? 

And  man,  by  his  wishes  misguided, 

Is  blinder  in  all  his  pursuits 
Than  even  the  pig  so  ill-fated ; 

Despising  the  least  transient  fruits. 

To  punish  him  for  his  shortcomings, 
Would  wisdom  not  bring  to  him  home; 

And  justice  in  such  a  proceeding, 
Would  hide  like  a  pebble  in  foam. 

"But,"  says  one,  "cupidity's  servants 
On  others  their  wrongs  will  inflict, 

Will  gorge  their  own  purses  with  mammon, 
And  all  that  is  just  contradict." 

And  blinder  than  both  the  foregoing, 

More  hoggish  than  either,  is  he 
Whom  love  has  completely  abandoned, 

Who  ever  unsated  must  be. 


Later  Poems 


Unsated  —  oh  terror  of  terrors  — 

While  wealth,  which  should  quench  his  desire 
Surrounds  him,  he,  famished  and  yearning, 

Embraces  an  undying  fire. 

To  punish  him  justly  and  fairly, 

He  should  be  allowed  to  proceed 
Until  he,  by  sweeping  disrelish, 

Is  forced  wiser  counsels  to  heed. 


MIND'S   SOLITUDE 

From  the  hour  of  birth,  when  the  spark  was  kindled, 

In  this,  our  frail  and  transient  shell, 
Until  our  life  has  ebbed  and  dwindled, 

Will  solitude  within  us  dwell. 
Our  consciousness  and  thinking  mind 
Holds  slow  communion  with  its  kind. 

Thy  smiling  face,  thy  careless  mien, 

May  disguise  a  groan  within  you, 
And  heartache  may,  although  not  seen, 

Strain  your  every  nerve  and  sinew; 
And  even  those  who  near  thee  dwell 
Can't  estimate  your  talents  well. 

Mind's  solitude  reigns  everywhere, 
All  o'er  the  world,  where  man  is  living, 

In  public  halls  or  hermit's  lair, 
To  solitude,  his  dole  he's  giving. 

By  outward  mold,  we  know  our  kin, 

But  strangers  to  us,  are  the  spirits  within. 
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Later  Poems 


Though  intimate  with  our  friends, 
And  near  them  through  each  passing  hour. 

The  hidden  thought  its  realm  defends 
Against  each  strange,  intruding  power, 

And  gulfs  remain,  which  ever  hide 

A  wealth  of  thought,  like  oceans  wide. 

For  years  we  may  together  dwell, 
And  know  each  others  traits  and  troubles ; 

We  may  distrust  and  scruples  quell, 
And  shun  deception's  short-lived  bubbles. 

Yet,  after  all,  we  stand  alone, 

In  times  of  stress,  to  sigh  and  moan. 

And  when  we  think  we  have  disclosed 
And  fathomed  every  nook  and  cranny 

Within  a  mind  which  seems  composed 
Of  light  alone  —  one  out  of  many  — 

We  find  the  task  with  which  we  cope 

Proves  that  we  still  in  darkness  grope. 


MUSINGS   OF  A  DREAMER 

What  am  I?     Whence  from,  ah,  and  whither? 
Did  chance  or  a  whim  place  me  hither  ? 

Is  life,  which  unconscious  remains, 
Though  weaving  and  spinning,  the  link  of  beginning, 

Or  the  end  of  eternity's  chains  ? 

To  fathom  life's  secrets,  confronting 
The  living,  I  tried,  yet  am  wanting 

In  all  that  resembles  result ; 
And  death  to  define,  the  task  I  assign 

To  those  who  can  read  the  occult. 
139 


Later  Poems 


I've  learned  in  long  years,  steeped  in  sorrow, 
Oft  cheered  with  vain  hopes  for  to-morrow, 

That  life  is  akin  to  a  trance. 
I've  found  to  my  terror  that  all  may  prove  error 

Which  human  conceit  may  advance. 

Proud  structures  of  wisdom  fell  humbled, 
And  all  that  existed,  e'er  crumbled, 

Beneath  time's  ne'er  slackening  heel ; 
And  the  more  I  am  yearning  for  the  gift  of  discerning, 

The  more  I  my  ignorance  feel. 

An  atom,  ne'er  missed,  yet  essential, 
To  make  up  creation  substantial, 

Am  I,  in  my  limited  sphere. 
Yet  not  without  reason,  but  the  fruit  of  his  season, 

Is  man  in  his  puny  state  here. 

The  past  to  our  judgement  is  shrouded, 
And  to-day  in  its  glare  finds  us  crowded 

With  theories,  doctrines  obscure ; 
And  the  future  encroaching  on  the  present,  is  broaching 

New  puzzles,  weak  men  to  allure. 

Alas,  even  knowledge  concerning 

Ourselves,  is  in  spite  of  all  learning, 

At  best  but  a  fruitless  essay ; 
We  try  to  unravel  the  paths  the  stars  travel, 

While  we  from  self-knowledge  do  stray. 

All  is  vain  that  we  value  and  cherish, 

Doomed  in  its  season  to  perish, 

Created  the  living  to  test, 
Who,  loving  or  hating,  in  zeal  ne'er  abating, 

In  stores  for  the  future  invest. 
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Later  Poems 


Love,  in  its  blessed  course,  is  e'er  finding 
A  certain  reward,  but  hates  grinding. 

All  structures  doth  build  on  loose  sand, 
The  former,  the  kernel  of  wisdom  eternal, 

The  latter,  a  craft  sure  to  strand. 

Vain  are  all  ambitions,  provided 

They  approach  not  the  light  which  e'er  guided 

Those  seeking  in  earnest  the  truth, 
For  which  we  are  groping,  despairing  and  hoping, 

Which  only  escapes  from  death's  tooth. 

Truth  is  the  true  searcher's  requital, 
And  love  is  the  virtue  most  vital, 

God's  messengers  laden  with  cheer, 
Who  come  in  dark  hours,  in  sunshine  and  showers, 

Where  they  are,  God  also  is  near. 


MEMORY 

Oh  dream  of  my  childhood,  oh  pleasure  unfading, 
Like  fairies  caressing,  approaches  thy  spell, 

And  fain  doth  my  spirit,  new  trials  evading, 
Upon  ever-changing  remembrances  dwell. 

The  joys  of  past  seasons,  which  never  corrode, 

Should  brighten  each  sorrow  and  lighten  each  load. 

The  log  house,  though  humble,  gave  shelter  unstinted, 
When  blizzards  did  threaten  its  site  to  engulf, 

And  the  creak  of  the  storm-shaken  clapboards  e'er  hinted 
That  the  element's  fury  surpasses  the  wolf, 

When  hunger  his  stomach  doth  shrivel  and  shrink, 

And  he,  disappointed,  to  his  cavern  doth  slink. 

141 


Later  Poems 


The  springs  of  the  valley,  whose  babble  since  languished, 
I've  seen  in  their  vigor,  and  heard  in  their  prime ; 

Alas,  'tis  a  thought  which  often  me  anguished, 
That  naught  can  escape  from  the  ravage  of  time, 

Which  ever  unsated,  doth  all  things  devour  — 

Even  itself  in  the  swift-passing  hour. 

The  grapes  of  the  forest,  the  nuts  which  we  gathered, 
The  blackberry  bushes,  o'erburdened  with  fruit, 

The  tribe  of  blythe  songsters,  in  gay  colors  feathered, 
The  squirrel,  rehearsing  his  standing  salute  — 

All  these,  and  the  stately,  yet  whispering  trees, 

I  see  oft  before  me  —  true  memory's  fees. 

The  orchids  and  blossoms  by  lovers  demanded, 

Vicing  each  other  in  grace  to  outdo ; 
The  fish,  which  the  angler  of  patience  e'er  landed, 

From  waters  portraying  the  heaven's  clear  blue ; 
The  reptile,  oft  harmless,  yet  shunned  all  the  same, 
I  should  as  a  passing  reflection  here  name. 

The  plain  daily  diet,  from  nature's  own  salver, 
As  pure  -and  as  wholesome  as  the  dew  of  the  night, 

Of  which  e'en  a  king  or  a  gay  truffle  delver 
Might  envy  the  feaster,  was  a  source  of  delight. 

And  the  woes  which  in  childhood  us  often  befall 

Could  now  neither  frighten  myself,  nor  appall. 

Oh  dreams  of  my  childhood!    Oh  pleasure  unfading! 

How  soothing  and  cheering  your  gentle  arts  are! 
Not  honor,  nor  even  misfortunes  degrading 

Can  smother  your  ceaseless  and  bright-shining  star. 
Your  visits  are  blessings,  which  often,  I  pray, 
May  comfort  my  sorrows,  my  ailings  allay. 
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Later  Poems 


THE  TALE   OF  THE   SCISSORS    GRINDER 

Dismal  and  dreary  o'er  the  beautiful  isle, 

Hung  clouds  of  dark  vapor,  which  tried  to  beguile 

The  hosts  in  their  clamor,  who  yearned  to  unwind 

The  threads  of  the  fates,  whose  tireless  hand, 

E'er  spinning  and  weaving,  life's  cream  doth  demand. 

"  Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 

I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 

The  deafening  bustle,  the  uproar  and  din, 

Preceding  the  struggle,  which  was  to  begin 

For  Cuba,  fair  Cuba,  e'er  treated  unkind, 

Rose  upward,  e'er  swelling  in  awful  accord, 

And  the  army  passed  onward  with  musket  and  sword. 

"  Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 

I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 

Capron,  the  captain,  so  brave  and  so  bold, 

Stood  firmly,  unflinching,  resolved  to  uphold 

The  banner  of  freedom,  which  ever  we  find 

Where  truth  and  where  light  in  their  conquering  train 

An  abode  for  the  peaceful  and  humble  doth  gain. 

"  Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 

I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 

The  cannons  were  roaring  like  demons  of  hell, 
Huge  missiles  e'er  bursting  in  torrents  now  fell, 
A  deluge  of  fire  before  and  behind, 
Yet  onward  and  onward  the  brave  captain  pressed, 
Though  the  enemy  struggled  like  giants  possessed. 
"  Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 
I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 
143 


Later  Poems 


"Ho  there!"  cried  a  messenger  from  his  swift  steed, 
Which,  dripping,  exhausted,  could  scarcely  proceed : 
"  Dear  Captain  forgive  me,  for  doubtless  your  mind, 
My  tidings  will  burden  with  sadness  and  grief ; 
Your  son  has  gone  down  like  a  storm-shattered  leaf." 
"  Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 
I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 

The  captain  ne'er  faltered  nor  slackened  his  gait, 

Until  the  fierce  combat  began  to  abate, 

And  the  forces  opposing  were  fleeing  like  blind. 

Then,  hastening  backward  in  search  of  his  boy 

Whom  the  fates  had  forsaken,  now  broke  like  a  toy. 

"  Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 

I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 

Prostrated,  the  last  of  his  promising  sons 

He  saw  now  before  him.     Oh  proud  Spanish  Dons, 

Your  thrust  has  gone  deeper  than  even  designed. 

He  stooped  to  uncover  the  face  ever  dear, 

Of  him  who  thus  checked  in  his  onward  career. 

"  Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 

I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 

He  smoothed  his  locks,  and  a  smile  sweet  and  sad 
His  countenance  stern,  in  its  bright  halo  clad 
"Well  done,  my  dear  boy!"  —  And  rising,  confined 
His  anguish  and  sorrow  where  mortal  conceit, 
Deficient  and  helpless,  is  apt  to  retreat. 
"Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 
I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 

Capron,  the  captain,  as  brave  as  before, 
His  duties  fulfilled,  and  his  trials  forebore. 
144 


Later  Poems 


But  when  the  war  over,  his  vitals  declined, 
And  like  a  grand  oak  tree,  of  all  limbs. deprived, 
His  body  succumbed  —  but  his  spirit  survived. 
"Scissors  to  grind,  ho,  scissors  to  grind, 
I  pray  you,  good  people,  more  scissors  to  grind." 


A   PROPHECY 

(This  poem  was  written  during  the  Boer  War,  and  was  aimed  against 
the  English  government,  not  the  English  people,  whom  I  always  admired.) 

Ye  bards  of  old!    Ye  prophets  skilled  and  wise! 
Ye  sages  who,  inspired,  oft  did  rise 

The  will  of  God  to  mankind  to  proclaim ; 
Ye  seers  gifted,  who  the  fate  foretold 
Of  nations  doomed  to  fall  or  to  enfold 

Their  strength  and  virtue  in  His  holy  name, 

To  you  I  bow;  forgive  that  I  intrude 
Inspired  thoughts  to  voice  —  in  solitude 

They  came  unbidden,  and  with  me  abide. 
Forgive  that  I,  not  prompted  by  conceit, 
But  by  a  sense  of  duty,  yielding,  meet 

An  obligation  urgent  like  the  tide. 

I  see  the  cloud,  scarce  visible  and  small, 
Before  whose  wrath  a  mighty  realm  shall  fall, 

Whose  prime  is  past,  whose  deeds  of  guilt  and  wrong 
Have  undermined  its  fundamental  stay : 
I  see  it  grow,  I  see  in  fierce  array 

Nemesis  and  her  sterner  sisters  throng. 


Later  Poems 


Britannia!   Thy  doom  is  near,  ah  near! 
Although  thou  rulest  yet  a  hemsiphere. 

Thy  days  are  counted,   and  thy  last  respite, 
Has  been  recorded  in  the  book  of  death. 
Exhausted  is  God's  patience,  and  his  breath 

Or  hand  will  crush  your  idols  and  your  might. 

Your  maxims,  that  the  fittest  should  survive 
Will  be  fulfilled.     Yet  fitness  to  deprive 

Thy  weaker  fellow-men  of  all  they  own 
Was  here  not  meant,  but  fitness  to  subdue 
Your  greed  for  more,  which  ruthless,  ever  slew 

Those  who  opposed  your  force  in  ev'ry  zone. 

Those  are  the  fittest  who,  in  times  of  need 
Unflinching  stand,   and  ne'er  an  inch  recede, 

And  drain  their  blood,  if  such  a  sacrifice 
Fate  doth  demand.    And  even  when  hard  pressed, 
Ne'er  do  forget  that  righteousness  is  blesssed, 

While  unjust  force  the  laws  of  God  defies. 

Those  are  the  fittest,  who  such  means  employ 
Which  giveth  life,  and  not  each  day  destroy 

The  works  of  God,  embodied  in  each  man. 
Those  who  respect  the  right  which  snail  or  fly 
Can  justly  claim,  the  right  to  live,  or  die, 

As  was  outmapped  in  nature's  guiding  plan. 

Thy  government,  for  which  thy  children  bleed, 
Britannia,  gives  them  but  scanty  meed ; 

Those  who  thy  battles  fight  receive  but  bones, 
While  favored  few  the  flesh  and  cream  demand, 
Which  rightfully  should  fill  your  people's  hand 

And  not  increase  the  wealth  of  selfish  drones. 
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Later  Poems 


Thy  love  for  gold,  for  wealth,  for  idle  dross 
Injustice  breeds,  and  widow's  tears  across 

The  ocean's  deep,  and  tears  at  home  in  streams, 
Cry  for  revenge,  robbed  of  their  only  stay 
By  deeds  of  those  who  must  a  court  obey, 

Composed  of  men  whose  every  thought  blasphemes. 

Thy  end  is  near,  Britannia!    Thy  pride, 
Thy  fleet,  will  vanish,  yea,  like  vapors,  glide 

Into  oblivion,  displaced  by  nature's  powers, 
Which  skilful  hands  and  guided  minds  will  find 
Thy  ships  to  break,  and  fortresses  to  grind 

Into  the  dust,  which  all  vain  things  devours. 

Iniquity,  and  ruthless  selfish  aims 

Marked  e'er  thy  course,  but  fitter  beings'  claims 

Will  soon  prevail,  and  peace  and  freedom  thrive ; 
Where  now  thy  arsenals  the  eye  offend, 
The  plow  and  spade  in  diligence  will  mend 

The  injury,  now  threatening  all  alive. 

Thy  brazen  guns,  intended  to  destroy, 
And  sinful  rulers  who  foul  means  employ, 

Their  ends  to  gain,  shall  be  in  time  reduced, 
And  higher  aims  than  slaughter,  strife,  and  war 
Shall  rule  the  world,  shall  force  the  gate  ajar 

Which  now  bars  out  fair  justice,  oft  abused. 

Of  wealth  deprived,  of  all  thy  powers  shorn, 
Misrule  will  end,  and  virtue's  wreath  adorn 

Thy  conquerors,  who  from  the  ranks  shall  rise, 
Which  e'er  produced  the  best,  which  e'er  brought  forth 
Men,  noted  for  their  fitness  and  their  worth  — 

The  ranks  of  toil,  where  strength  dwells  in  disguise. 
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One  consolation  shall  thy  people  cheer, 
O'er  whom  vile  lordlings  e'er  did  domineer, 

Consuming  that  which  others  did  create : 
They  shall  observe,  while  time  through  epochs  glides, 
Their  language  grow,  and  spread  with  giant's  strides, 

While  other  tongues  cease  to  reverberate. 

The  time  will  come,  when  obsolete  thy  name, 
Known  to  but  few,  unknown  to  lasting  fame, 

Yet  shall  the  best  thou  ever  didst  esteem  — 
Thy  language  —  conquer  in  its  peaceful  course, 
The  speech  of  those  who  broke  your  brutal  force 

And  thus  enhance  the  star  of  fitness'  gleam. 

Britannia,  beware !   Ah,  heed  the  signs, 

Which  like  the  shades,  when  noonday's  sun  declines, 

Begin  to  grow,  which  in  each  rune  reveals 
Thy  coming  doom  —  Britannia,  atone ! 
Retrace  thy  steps,  for  penitence  alone 

Can  check  the  fate  which  dead'ning  o'er  thee  steals. 


THE   DUTIES   OF  THE   GIFTED 

An  idiot's  error  counts  lightly, 
For  fetters  his  groping  mind  bind, 
And  God,  in  his  wisdom,  ne'er  asketh, 
From  him  who  is  mentally  blind 
An  insight,  unerring,  unfailing, 
In  efforts,  alas,  unavaling. 

But  ye,  who  are  capable,  gifted, 
Whose  conscience  can  plainly  discern ; 
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Whose  spirit  in  higher  realms  soaring 
Could,  toilless,  life's  simple  truths  learn ; 
For  ye,  it  is  meet  and  befitting 
To  avoid  aimless  folly  and  flitting. 

Your  gifts  are  the  bearers  of  duties, 
Your  wisdom  a  borrowed  attire, 
Reflecting  but  qualified  honor, 
As  madmen  ne'er  hatred  inspire ; 
Your  gifts  are  a  trust,  no  possession, 
Misused,  they  may  sink  to  a  passion. 

Your  strength  is  the  strength  of  thy  Maker, 
Beware,  how  thou  wait'st  on  his  trust ; 
Count,  mortal,  thy  life  a  vain  struggle, 
Unless  all  your  doings  are  just. 
The  thought  of  thy  helpless  weak  brother, 
All  selfish  impulses  should  smother. 

Your  aptness,  without  much  exertion, 
Triumphantly  conquers  defeat : 
While  he,  the  less  gifted,  reaps  failure, 
With  which  all  his  life  is  replete. 
His  misconceived  efforts  fail  ever, — 
Yet  credit  deserves  true  endeavor. 

He  does  all  his  Maker  expected, 
'Though  meager  results  are  his  share ; 
And  thou,  who  art  favored  and  skilful, 
See  to  it,  your  deeds  do  compare 
With  all  thy  endowments  of  spirit, 
Or  thou  wilt  but  shadows  inherit. 


149 


Later  Poems 


TIME 

O  time,  stay  thy  footsteps,  suspend  thy  mad  haste, 
Oh,  cease  in  thy  march,  for  thy  hurry  lays  waste. 
The  dreams  of  my  youth,  and  the  hopes  which,  forsooth, 
Still  beckon  to  me  in  my  search  for  the  truth. 

Man's  yearning  for  deeds  and  for  thoughts  which  outlive 

The  short  space  allotted  to  each  fugitive, 

Who  follows  thy  path,  O  time,  ever  hath 

To  struggle  'gainst  thee,  to  the  end  of  his  breath. 

The  best  part  of  life,  ay,  months  and  long  years, 
Finds  us  but  in  thralldom,  'twixt  hoping  and  fears, 
For  necessity's  spurn,  at  every  turn, 
Defeats  noble  aims,  which  in  human  hearts  burn. 

Oft  talents  are  smothered,  and  spirits  subdued 

Which,  free  from  want's  shackles,  would  failure  exclude, 

While  others  succeed  to  overcome  need, 

Yet  die  ere  the  harvest  could  spring  from  the  seed. 

Alas,  'tis  your  nature,  O  time,  in  your  speed 

To  tarry  no  moment,  not  even  to  heed 

The  calls  of  distress,  nor  the  joyful  caress 

Of  those  who  would  hold  what  is  doomed  by  life's  stress. 

The  past  is  thy  footprint,  and  thou  art  to-day 
The  future,  the  highway  approaching  your  sway, 
And  we  who  are  grieving,  oft  doubting,  believing, 
Are  eddies  of  dust  which  your  footsteps  are  cleaving. 

150 


Later  Poems 


Yet  thou,  even  thou,  who  resistless  proceeds 
Art  naught  but  the  servant  of  Him  who  e'er  leads; 
And  though  never  seen,  no  virtue  so  mean 
Which  he  would  reject  in  His  wisdom  serene. 


YOUR   FACE   WILL   TELL   THE    STORY 

An  abstract  on  its  pages 

Doth  past  transactions  show; 
And  vanished  thoughts,  forgotten, 

Which  in  thy  past  did  glow, 
And  pain  or  joy  which  keenly 

Did  torture  or  enthrall ; 
Your  face  will  tell  the  story, 

Your  countenance  tells  all. 

Each  living  thought  which  dwelleth 

Within  thy  active  mind 
A  trace  leaves  on  thy  visage, 

A  mark,  it  leaves  behind, 
And  shows  the  close  observer 

Your  rising  or  your  fall ; 
Your  face  will  tell  the  story, 

Your  countenance  tells  all. 

Your  noble  thoughts  unspoken 

Did  shape  their  dwelling  place 
To  make  it  uninviting 

For  vice,  devoid  of  grace. 
But  if  the  latter  enters 

And  thou  dost  it  install, 
Your  face  will  tell  the  story, 

Your  countenance  tells  all. 


Later  Poems 


Degraded  thoughts  which  action 

Bring  forth,  or  dormant  lie, 
Their  imprint  leave  upon  thee, 

Their  signs  will  multiply. 
And  sorrow's  sting  and  gnawing 

Will  on  thee  cast  its  pall; 
Your  face  will  tell  the  story, 

Your  countenance  tells  all. 

The  miser  hoarding  chattels, 

The  usurer,  whose  heart 
To  stone  has  turned,  ne'er  sated, 

No  pleasing  sight  impart, 
Since  such  emotions  brand  us 

In  runes,  which  do  appall; 
Your  face  will  tell  the  story, 

Your  countenance  tells  all. 

Your  voice,  it  may  deceive  us, 

Your  written  pages,  too, 
May  leave  a  false  impression 

And  us  with  faith  imbue. 
But  if  you  stand  before  me 

In  virtue,  large  or  small, 
Your  face  will  tell  the  story, 

Your  countenance  tells  all. 


152 


TRANSLATIONS 


POESY  AND  WOMEN 

(By  Julius  Rodenberg.) 

The  pure  and  true  of  womankind, 
Like  roses  are,  in  darkened  leaves, 

Their  dreaming  soul,  vague,  undefined, 
A  fragrance  round  each  object  weaves. 

In  her  own  world,  where  virtue  dwells, 
All  is  serene,  and  graceful,  tender; 

A  glance  into  her  pure  soul  tells 
A  tale  of  heaven's  own  surrender. 

True,  thou  shouldst  listen  to  the  wise, 
Nor  be  a  child  which  only  prattles, 

And  from  thy  teacher's  desk  shouldst  rise, 
Equipped  with  means  to  fight  life's  battles. 

But  deathless  things,  unseen,  divined, 
If  thou  dost  follow  in  thy  labors, 

Then  turn  thy  face  to  womankind 
And  poesy,  for  they  are  neighbors. 


153 


Translations 


THE    POET'S   PREROGATIVES 

(By  Hans  Freiherr  von  Rothkirch.) 

Thou  dost  lament,  O  poet,  that  each  dream 
Has  fled,  to  leave  thee  poorer  in  life's  stream. 
But  why  repine,  while  millions  of  others 
The  burden  feel,  which  now  thy  spirit  smothers  ? 

Each  day  and  year,  we  see  some  blossoms  fall, 

And  nearer  draws  the  grave  to  one  and  all ; 

Yet  few  of  them  are  conscious  and  aware 

How  sadly  they  are  changed  through  grief  and  care. 

The  poet  only  sees  —  oft  with  dismay  — 
What  he  has  been,  and  what  he  is  today. 
He,  and  none  else,  in  written  runes  confessed 
What  he  has  lost,  and  what  he  ne'er  possessed. 

Each  song  he  penned  in  former  times  reveals 
How  hopes  were  blasted,  and  again  he  feels 
The  woe  and  pain  which  others  have  forgot, 
Arising  from  mind's  cemetery  lot. 

Yet  must  I  add,    his  burden  is  but  just ; 
For  strength  he  has  to  rise,  while  in  the  dust 
His  brothers  sink,  in  heart  and  spirit  broken ; 
111  luck  he  shapes  to  be  his  prop  and  token. 

Therefore,  be  proud,  O  poet!   Ne'er  complain 
That  joys  have  fled,  while  miseries  remain ; 
Prerogatives  to  bear  with  stronger  heart 
His  greater  burdens,  are  the  poet's  part. 
154 


Translations 


I   CRAVE   OF  THEE 

(By  H.  von  Fallersleben.) 

I  crave  of  thee  what  time  ne'er  overcame, 
'Tis  beauty  which  springs  from  the  heart ; 

I  ask  of  thee  what  ne'er  this  world  can  claim, 
Thy  pure  child  love,  devoid  of  art. 

This  is  the  heart's  most  rare  and  precious  boon, 
Which  doth  our  life  with  joy  adorn ; 

Owns  thee  the  world,  and  thou  to  me  art  soon 
As  one  who  died,  or  ne'er  was  born. 


HOMAGE  TO   THE  ARTS 

(By  Schiller.) 

Unrestrained  by  bounds,  unfettered,  free, 

I  hasten  on  through  space,  by  naught  confined. 
My  realm  immense  is  thought.     The  word's  the  key, 

The  winged  tool,  with  which  I  all  unbind, 
And  all  that  heaven  or  earth  from  others  hides, 

Or  nature  in  her  secret  way  begets, 
Must  yield  to  me  and  be  unveiled.     Besides, 

The  poet's  art  no  foe  of  light  abets, 
But  greater  beauty  nowhere  else  I  found 
Than  a  fair  soul,  with  beauty  all  around. 


Translations 


PERSEVERANCE 

(By  Julius  Hammer.) 

If  thou  wouldst  build  a  lasting  temple, 

Where  beauty  dwells,  and  worth  abides, 
Let  thou  not  fear  of  earnest  labor, 

Thy  courage  check,  or  halt  thy  strides. 
Enthusiasm  and  hope's  promise, 

Are  not  enough  to  gain  thy  end ; 
Exhaustive  strife  with  yielding  matter, 

Alone,  can  faultless  form  and  blend. 


THE  COMMON   GROUND 

(By  Frederic  Rueckert.) 

If  thou  wouldst  thy  brother's  feeling 
Deeply  stir,  my  word  accept ; 

Sing  of  woe,  whose  strains  appealing 
Pass  no  heart  which  ever  wept. 

There  are  those  to  whom  a  stranger 
Joy,  undarkened  and  serene, 

Ever  was.    But  woe  and  danger, 
All,  alas,  have  felt  and  seen. 


156 


Translations 


THE   PARTITIONING   OF  THE   EARTH 

(By  Schiller.) 

"Take  ye  the  world,"  cried  Jove  from  his  high  throne, 
To  men,  his  thralls,  "to  keep  and  to  possess; 

Take  this,  my  gift,  which  ye  shalt  ever  own ; 
But  portion  it,  that  all  this  boon  may  bless." 

Then  hurried  each,  and  scrambled  in  much  haste, 
And  young  and  old  were  tireless  all  day ; 

The  farmer  took  the  fields,  yet  bare  and  waste, 
The  hunter  chose  the  forest,  there  to  stay. 

The  merchant  gathered  all  that  he  could  store ; 

The  abbot  hastened  to  the  sweetest  wine ; 
The  king  claimed  toll  on  street  and  river's  shore, 

And  said,  "  One  tenth  of  all  that  grows  is  mine." 

At  last,  when  all  was  claimed  and  fixed  upon, 
The  poet  came,  from  whence,  no  mortal  knew, 

And  asked  his  share,  but  all,  alas  was  gone, 

And  vain  the  search,  which  he  did  thence  pursue. 

"Woe,  woe!"  cried  he,  "that  I  alone  should  fail, 
Thy  truest  son,  who  aims  but  thee  to  please : 

I,  who  ne'er  folly's  stings,  nor  truth's  travail, 
Did  shun,  to  gain  the  sluggard's  toilless  ease." 

"  If  thou  didst  tarry  in  the  land  of  dreams, 
Blame  thou  not  me,    if  all  earth's  wealth  has  flown, 

Where  hast  thou  been  ?"     quoth  Jove,  "  to  me  it  seems 
Thou  reapest  that  which  thou  alone  hast  sown." 


Translations 


"  Mine  eye  upon  thy  countenance  did  dwell, 
And  on  thy  heaven's  harmonies,  mine  ear ; 

Forgive  the  spirit  whom  thy  light's  sweet  spell 

From  earthly  things  removed  to  thine  own  sphere." 

"Alas!"  said  Jove,  "disposed  of  is  each  prize, 
And  naught  is  left  which  I  could  still  bestow, 

If  thou  wilt  live  with  me  in  Paradise, 
Thou  shalt  at  will,  in  freedom  come  and  go." 


158 


DRAMAS 

I 

AMONG  THE   PIONEERS 
A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

Dramatic  Personel 
MR.  BRIMBURY,  a  rancher. 
THOMAS,  his  son 
ADELHEID,  his  daughter. 
MR.  ABNER,  a  rancher. 

Louis,  his  son. 

CABANO,  chief  of  a  band  of  outlaws. 

LIEUT.  YALE,  of  the  U.  S.  Army. 

Robbers  and  soldiers. 

ACT  I 

(BRIMBURY'S  log  house.    Enter  BRIMBURY  and  THOMAS.) 

THOMAS 

Just  so,  forsooth! 

What  thou  hast  said  is  but  the  truth. 
The  net  of  circumstances  drags 
Us  surely  down,  if  courage  lags, 
Mesh  by  mesh,  in  silent  stealth 
Destiny  weaves  on.     I  felt 
E'er  you  did  speak,  what  doth  oppress 
Thy  mind,  my  father  dear. 
*$9 


Among  the  Pioneers 


BRIMBURY 
No  doubt,  my  boy. 
We  both  see  clear,  but  how  proceed? 
An  easy  task  'tis  e'er  to  feed 
Those  with  advice  who  need  it  not; 
But  now  that  we,  by  fate's  complot 
Pursued,  safe  remedy  is  wanting. 

THOMAS 

What  can  we  do,  what  shall  we  do? 
This  is  the  thread  I  did  pursue 
All  day,  all  night,  with  searching  mind, 
And  found,  or  rather,  tried  to  find 
Expedients,  which  by  the  score 
Passed  by  my  waking  inward  core, 
Yet  all  seems  vain,  a  prey  of  doubt. 

BRIMBURY 

The  banyan  tree,  which  in  its  age 
Its  offspring's  succor  doth  engage 
To  help  to  bear  the  weight  of  years, 
As  I  thy  aid  now  seek  in  fears, 
Is  much  like  me,  whose  strength  declines, 
While  still  his  mind  to  broaden  pines. 

THOMAS 

Oh  speak  not  thus.    Thy  strength  remains ; 
Thy  grief  for  mother  only  chains 
Thy  spirit  down  in  saddened  gloom. 

BRIMBURY 

Alas,  she's  gone!    All  mortals'  doom! 
And  oft  I  ask,  why  should  I  mourn  ? 
Are  not  to  die  all  beings  born  ? 
160 


Among  the  Pioneers 


But  since  her  deeds  behind  her  left 
The  proof  of  worth,  the  more  bereft, 
The  more  forsaken  do  I  feel. 

THOMAS 

Pray  rouse  thyself.     We  share  thy  grief; 
Let  us  consult,  for  time  is  brief ; 
As  I  remarked,  luck  seems  to  stride 
Away  from  us,  like  waning  tide. 
Lost  is  the  man  of  sluggard's  gait, 
For  timely  deeds  may  conquer  fate. 

BRIMBURY 
Well  said,  my  boy,  speak  on,  I  pray. 

THOMAS 

The  hostile  rogues  with  copper  skin, 
Or  else  the  bandit,  whose  chagrin 
Poor  Adelheid  did  cause, 
Stole  our  herds  with  thievish  claws. 
And  I  for  one,  I  should  advise 
To  follow  swift,  and  to  chastise 
The  thieves,  whoe'er  they  be. 

BRIMBURY 

The  bandits  all  are  more  to  fear 
Than  Indians.     To  me  'tis  clear, 
The  oft  mistreated  redskin's  brain 
The  cunning  lacks,  his  ends  to  gain, 
By  slow  degrees,  beneath  a  mask, 
While  they  yet  in  our  friendship  bask. 

THOMAS 

Dost  to  Cabano  thou  allude? 
161 


Among  the  Pioneers 


BRIMBURY 

The  same.    The  rogue  who  did  intrude 
Upon  thy  lovely  sister. 

THOMAS 
Ah,  her  footsteps  I  discern. 

(Enter  ADELHEID.) 

BRIMBURY 

My  child,  to  see  thee  I  did  yearn. 
Pray  do  relate,  how,  when,  and  where, 
Thou  first  didst  meet  the  evil  stare 
Of  him,  whose  boldness  thee  offends, 
Who  doth  by  stealth  gain  all  his  ends. 

ADELHEID 

Beyond  the  hill.    Thou  knowest  the  place, 
Where  stately  woods  the  hillside  grace, 
A  favored  spot,  a  place  to  muse, 
Where  light  and  shade,  e'er  changing,  fuse ; 
Where  oft  my  mind  in  aimless  dreams 
Forgets  the  world,  which  glows  and  gleams. 
'Twas  there,  a  week  ago,  one  day 
I  sat,  when  lo,  to  my  dismay 
Two  gaudy  rogues,  like  birds  of  prey, 
With  tomahawk,  did  bounce  to  slay, 
Or  else  e'en  worse,  they  meant  to  drag 
As  captive  me,  onto  a  nag. 

THOMAS 

Oh,  sneaking  knaves,  had  I  been  there, 
I'd  made  them  skip,  by  Jove  I  swear! 
162 


Among  the  Pioneers 


ADELHEID 

I  wish  you  had,  in  place  of  him 
Whose  piercing  eyes  and  features  grim, 
My  terror  did  at  once  increase. 

BRIMBURY  (impatient) 
Relate,  my  child,  relate! 

ADELHEID 

As  I  remarked,  both  rushed  towards  me, 
While  terrified,  I  tried  to  flee. 
One  grasped  my  arm ;    when,  tempest  like, 
Cabano  dashed  towards  us,  to  strike 
On  fleetest  steed.     With  piercing  yell 
Both  fled  as  if  from  doom's  own  knell. 

THOMAS 

From  bad  to  worse,  from  death  to  hell! 
Oh,  that  such  mischief  thee  befell! 

ADELHEID 

"  I  swear,"  said  he,  "  by  these,  my  scars, 
That  their  escape  my  pleasure  mars, 
Yet  did  I  hesitate  to  aim, 
For  fear  to  hit  thee,  noble  dame. 
Philosophers  like  me,  appeal 
To  reason  first,  then  to  their  steel." 
His  speech  was  fair,  but  I  did  feel 
His  fiendish  glance,  which  made  me  reel ; 
He  led  his  steed,  we  homeward  walked, 
And  oh,  his  tongue  so  glibly  talked. 

BRIMBURY 

Was  that  the  first  time  thou  didst  meet 
That  bandit,  robber,  rogue,  and  cheat, 
Who  now  thy  gratitude  doth  claim  ? 
163 


Among  the  Pioneers 


ADELHEID 

The  first.     But  oh,  my  words  are  lame, 
Inadequate,  to  show  how  I 
Abhor  that  man,  whose  deeds  belie 
That  he  unselfish  acts  this  role. 
He  follows  me  with  his  cajole 
At  every  turn. 

THOMAS 

Enough  of  this.    To  Abner's  ranch  (Adelheid  blushes) 
To  seek  the  aid  of  Louis  so  stanch, 
I'll  ride  in  haste,  and  then  we'll  chase 
The  thieves  so  bold  in  heated  race. 
Not  always  justice  wins  the  heat, 
Yet  he  who  yields  invites  defeat ; 
A  swift  resolve  forestalls  success, 
While  timid  action  doth  caress 
Disaster's  greed. 

BRIMBURY 

Do  as  thou  wilt.     Thou  speakest  well ; 
My  aching  bones  and  health  compel 
Me  to  abstain  from  joining  thee, 
And  then,  I  fear,  'twould  surely  be 
Not  well  to  leave  poor  Adelheid 
Alone,  while  these  marauders  glide 
Unseen  through  bush  and  hidden  caves. 

THOMAS 

Indeed,  the  fiercest  of  the  knaves, 
Cabano,  'tis  whose  stealth  I  fear ; 
That  he  may  fail,  I  wish  sincere. 

(Eocit  THOMAS.) 
164 


Among  the  Pioneers 


BRIMBURY 

My  heart  with  pleasure  and  with  pride 
Looks  on  thy  brother,  Adelheid ; 
Were  I  yet  young,  and  thou  not  here, 
Adventures  such  as  I  now  fear 
Would  stimulate  my  love  for  deeds 
Of  valor,  but  my  age  impedes. 

ADELHEID 
No,  father,  no.     Oh,  speak  not  so. 

BRIMBURY 

I  don't  complain.     I  did  outgrow 
The  pleasures  which  to  youth  belong ; 
Each  state  and  age,  of  joys  a  throng 
Can  call  its  own.     I  now  enjoy 
My  children's  love  without  alloy. 
Experience  did  ever  teach 
That  naught  on  earth  can  last,  that  each 
And  every  joy  which  came  and  grew 
Is  short-lived  like  the  morning  dew. 
And  wise  is  he  who  makes  the  best 
Of  every  moment  —  God's  bequest  — 
And  though  my  frame  in  strength  doth  fail, 
My  mind  more  fitted  to  avail 
Can  grasp  life's  truth  with  greater  ease 
And  hope  grows  bright  at  life's  surcease. 

ADELHEID 

Forgive  that  I  oft  did  bewail 
The  loss  of  things  so  vain  and  frail, 
Which  now  I  learn  could  never  last, 
Which  are  forgotten,  gone,  and  passed. 
165 


Among  the  Pioneers 


BRIMBURY 

Not  so,  my  child.     Though  all  will  fade, 
All  small  and  passing  things  are  made 
To  fill  their  place  as  we  fill  ours, 
While  God's  great  love  above  all  towers. 
The  joys  of  life  are  manifold, 
As  are  the  plants  which  we  behold ; 
Each  in  its  place  is  necessary 
To  make  the  whole.     The  stem  must  carry 
The  finer  parts  which  breathe  the  air, 
And  each  receiveth  its  own  share. 
'Tis  not  in  vain  we  pluck  the  flower, 
Though  fade  it  must,  the  selfsame  hour. 

ADELHEID 

Thanks,  father,  thanks.     Thy  words  so  wise 
Encourage  me  not  to  disguise 
The  sorrows  which  my  mind  oppress  — 
Perhaps  thou  knowest  my  distress. 

BRIMBURY 

Let  me,  my  child  thy  burden  share ; 
Reveal  to  me  thy  secret  care. 

ADELHEID 

'Tis  not  alone  the  low  pursuit 
Of  which  we  spoke,  that  pains  acute ; 
'Tis  not  my  mother's  death  alone 
Which  doth  beget  my  secret  moan. 
Begin,  I  must,  for  none  but  thou 
Can  ease  my  mind,  I  do  avow. 

BRIMBURY 

Cheer  up,  my  child,  and  do  not  quail ; 
My  care  for  thee  shall  never  fail. 
166 


Among  the  Pioneers 


ADELHEID 

Louis  Abner,  sir,  whom  all  esteem, 
Is  dear  to  me,  of  him  I  dream 
With  open  eyes,   all  night,  all  day, 
If  he  is  here  or  far  away ; 
Though  dark  the  day,  if  he  is  near, 
All  shadows  seem  to  disappear. 
He  doth  return  my  love,  and  I 
In  happiness  would  all  outvie ; 
But,  sir,  his  parents,  aged  and  stern, 
Object  to  me,  in  grief  I  learn. 

BRIMBURY 
Object  to  you  ? 

ADELHEID 

Indeed  to  me.     It  seems  their  view 
Is  far  from  broad,  or  why  pursue 
Me  for  my  faith  ? 

BRIMBURY 

What,  sayest  thou,  our  differing  creed  ? 
Oh,  that's  the  obstacle,  indeed! 
Were  Louis  like  both  his  parents  aged, 
I'd  toil  to  see  thee  disengaged. 
But,  happily,  he  is  not  thus, 
His  every  thought  is  generous. 
He's  one  of  those  whose  deeds  proclaim 
That  he,  in  spirit  more  than  name, 
Performs  his  tasks  as  God  expects, 
Regardless  of  all  creeds  and  sects. 
Subdue  thy  woe.     All  may  yet  end 
Far  better  than  we  apprehend. 

(The  curtain  drops.) 
167 


Among  the  Pioneers 


ACT  II 
(In  ABNER'S  log  house.    Enter  ABNER  and  Louis.) 

Louis 

With  due  respect,  I  must  reply 
The  facts  I  gave  don't  justify 
Your  attitude  in  this  affair. 

ABNER 

Your  insolence  is  hard  to  bear ; 
Your  Adelheid,  though  smooth  of  face 
Is  one  of  a  most  godless  race. 

Louis 

Why  godless  race  ?    Are  they  not  true  ? 
Their  blameless  lives,  I  pray,  review. 
Although  their  faith  is  not  like  thine, 
It's  quite  as  worthy  and  divine. 

ABNER 

Hush,  hush,  thou  vain,  deluded  fool! 
Fit  pupil  of  old  Satan's  school, 
There  is  but  one  faith,  only  one, 
Which  leads  to  Him  who  guides  the  sun, 
The  faith  I  taught  to  thee,  in  vain, 
A  faith  which  angers  the  profane. 

Louis 

Their  faith,  like  thine,  doth  surely  please 
God's  wakeful  eye,  which  all  things  sees. 
The  paths  which  lead  to  Him  on  high, 
Are  manifold,  and  signify 
168 


Among  the  Pioneers 


That  those  who  ever  seek  and  strive 
In  righteousness,  they  will  derive 
Their  just  reward,  although  their  creed 
May  error  be.     God  does  not  heed 
The  spoken  word,  but  sees  the  deed, 
And  reads  the  thought  which  gave  it  birth. 
We  are  weak  children  of  this  earth ; 
The  chances  are,  we  know  far  less 
Of  God  and  future,  I  confess, 
Than  does  the  fish,  which  sightless  dwells 
In  solitude  in  deepest  wells, 
Knows  of  the  creature  man,  so  proud. 

ABNER 

Thou  heretic.     Thy  words  so  loud, 
Offend  mine  ears  like  sounds  of  hell. 
Now  sir!     Art  thou  an  infidel? 

Louis 

No  infidel ;   no,  father,  no ; 
JTis  not  my  aim  to  overthrow 
The  teachings  all,  which  do  include 
Much  wisdom  of  great  magnitude. 
They  are  the  best  we  can  produce, 
Yet  far  from  godly  in  their  use, 
Unless  to  God  we  do  submit 
All  differences,  and  acquit 
In  modesty,  all  tasks  we  meet. 

ABNER 
Thy  tongue  is  sleek  and  indiscreet. 

Louis 

On  God's  infinity  to  dwell 
Is  past  all  earthly  parallel. 
169 


Among  the  Pioneers 


We  can  the  All  not  interview ; 
We  only  know  He  loves  the  true, 
The  kind,  the  just,  who  ne'er  pursue 
Their  fellow-men.     I  have  in  view 
The  littleness  of  humankind 
Whose  self -aggrandizements  remind 
Me  of  the  snail,  whose  narrow  cell 
Is  his  whole  world,  his  citadel. 
All  see  the  world  as  it  appears, 
Not  as  it  is.     He  who  not  hears 
Can't  comprehend  the  world  of  sound ; 
And  he,  the  sightless,  who  is  bound 
To  night  eternal,  he  must  gain 
Conclusions  slowly,  grain  by  grain. 
Had  we  another  sense  or  two, 
The  Christian,  the  heathen,  Jew, 
Could  see  mistakes  they  now  defend 
But  never  wholly  comprehend, 
All-knowing  God  of  all  the  cause. 
Yet  must  I  add,  although  some  flaws 
Are  doubtless  found  in  every  creed, 
'Tis  easier,  all  must  concede, 
To  criticize  than  to  improve 
The  doctrines  which  our  minds  do  move. 

ABNER 

Spare  me.     I  scorn  your  wicked  dish 

Of  madness  and  of  gibberish. 

If  she,  who  did  thy  eloquence 

Inspire,  sir,  to  flights  immense, 

Will  join  our  church,  and  will  foreswear 

Her  own,  which  is  old  Satan's  snare, 

I  will  consent. 

170 


Among  the  Pioneers 


Louis 

I  pray  thee,  sir,  not  so,  I  pray. 
Have  patience,  for  thy  words  betray 
That  thou  mistakest  her  to  be 
A  shallow  thing  of  low  degree, 
For  only  such  their  faith  will  change, 
To  please  one  person,  and  estrange 
Themselves  from  those  to  whom  they  owe 
Love,  gratitude,  from  long  ago. 
And  furthermore,  those  who  revere 
And  truly  love  God,  should  adhere 
Unswerving  to  their  conscience'  course, 
For  'tis  His  voice,  and  He'll  endorse 
Their  offering,  although  their  mind 
Can't  grasp  the  truth  to  God  confined. 
To  change  our  faith,  as  we  would  change 
A  coat,  a  dress,  or  rearrange 
All  passing  things,  destined  to  fade, 
Strikes  me  as  doth  a  masquerade, 
Which  oft  beneath  its  glittering  rind 
Hides  poverty  of  heart  and  mind. 

ABNER 

Enough  of  this.     I've  had  my  say ; 
I'm  sorely  grieved,  that  thou,  my  stay, 
Shouldst  thus  repay  the  love  and  care 
Which  with  thy  mother  I  did  share ; 
On  whom  to  lean,  I  thought  with  pride, 
When  aged,  my  powers  should  subside. 

Louis 

I  only  ask,  my  father  dear, 
My  Adelheid  to  see  and  hear ; 
171 


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My  feeble  words,  despised  and  weak, 
Thy  ear  to  gain,  in  vain  did  seek. 
To  her  good  sense  I  now  will  trust 
To  move  thy  heart,  and  melt  its  crust. 
Oho,  who's  there  ? 

(Enter  THOMAS  in  haste.) 

THOMAS  (to  Louis) 
In  haste  I've  come  to  ask  your  aid, 
Since  I  must  seek  the  thieves  who  made 
Away  with  our  herds. 

Louis 

What  sayest  thou  ?    What  is  it,  friend  ? 
Thieves,  dost  thou  say?    I  apprehend 
There  will  be  work  for  us  these  days, 
For  lawlessness,  barefaced,  displays 
A  boldness,  which  all  doth  eclipse ; 
But  off,  in  haste,  not  word  of  lips, 
Nor  fruitless  loiter  wins  the  day. 

ABNER 
Quite  right  you  are.     Off,  off,  I  say. 

(Exit  THOMAS  and  Louis.) 

Ah,  ah,  I'm  stunned.     Did  I  outlive 
My  time  ?    Ah,  sad  prerogative 
Of  age  to  claim  the  title  "Sage," 
While  stripplings  of  this  fellow's  age 
In  words  submissive  and  demure, 
In  wisdom  veiled,  try  to  allure 
Us  from  the  point  of  view  which  we 
Upheld  in  sorrow,  strife,  or  glee, 
172 


Among  the  Pioneers 


By  habit  strengthened,  day  and  year, 
Our  staff  and  stay  in  times  austere, 
And  now,  that  soon  my  task  is  o'er 
Shall  I  admit  that  I  deplore 
My  former  course,  that  I  was  wrong? 
No,  thrice  no,  I'll  plod  along. 
(He  strikes  his  hands  in  anger,  and  muses.) 
Yet  true  it  is,  when  age  doth  throw 
Its  weight  on  us,  we  stubborn  grow. 
What  we  in  youth  by  chance  have  missed, 
In  age  we  scorn,  and  we  resist ; 
The  pride  of  youth  to  time  will  yield, 
But  age  its  foibles  ne'er  repealed. 
We  all  can  see,  that  if  the  son 
Does  not  eclipse  his  sire's  run, 
Progress  will  halt  and  retrograde, 
And  ignorance  the  world  invade. 

(Again  in  anger.) 
But  never,  no,  I'll  ne'er  consent. 
My  foolish  boy  must  be  content. 

(Again  musing.) 

That  fellow  Tom,  what  fine  a  man  — 
I  fain  his  sister's  face  would  scan  — 
Not  to  forgive,  but  her  to  scorn. 
I'll  call  on  Brimbury  this  morn. 
This  foolish  match  in  haste  begun, 
E'er  I  return,  has  had  its  run. 
I'll  ne'er  consent. 

(Curtain  falls.) 


Among  the  Pioneers 


ACT  III 

In  BRIMBURY'S  log  house.     BRIMBURY  and  ADELHEID.    Enter 

ABNER. 

ABNER 
Good  morning  all.     God  be  with  you. 

BRIMBURY 

To  you  the  same.     What  tidings  new 
Dost,  neighbor  dear,  thou  bring  to-day  ? 
But  first  be  seated,  sir  I  pray. 

(ABNER,  sitting  down,  and  looking  at  ADELHEID  with  mingled 

scorn  and  admiration.) 
I  am  devoid  of  eloquence, 
Unskilled  in  speech,  free  of  pretense, 
I  call  on  thee  without  much  show ; 
My  presence  here  is  the  outgrow 
Of  a  short  talk  with  Louis,  my  boy, 
Who  does,  it  seems,  his  time  employ, 
Or,  more  correct,  his  time  to  waste ; 
He  courts  your  daughter,  fair  and  chaste. 

BRIMBURY 

Pray,  what  of  it  if  she  is  fair  ? 
And  chaste  besides  ?    They  are  a  pair 
Which  e'er  a  higher  price  commands 
Than  gold  and  wealth,  which  ne'er  expands, 
And  ne'er  inspires  shrunken  hearts 
To  deeds  of  love,  nor  e'er  imparts 


Among  the  Pioneers 


The  spirit  which  the  avenues 
Of  helpfulness  and  love  pursues, 
Unless  this  wealth  is  made  a  tool 
To  help  the  good  and  kind  to  rule. 

ABNER 

Thou  dost  mistake  me  sir,  not  I 
Object  to  charms  and  duties  high, 
Which  in  themselves  are  truly  good, 
But  void  of  credit  to  my  mood. 
A  gift  of  God,  or  duties  done, 
Deserve  no  praise,  I  offer  none. 

(Aside.) 

Yet  she's  a  witch,  ah,  Louis,  poor  fool, 
Such  charms  as  hers  will  overrule 
The  wisdom  which  old  age  begets, 
E'en  opposition  youth  abets. 

BRIMBURY 
What  mutterest  thou  ?    art  thou  unwell  ? 

ADELHEID 
Sir,  your  distrust  I  pray  dispel. 

ABNER 

What  I've  to  say  will  soon  be  out. 
I've  come  this  foolish  match  to  rout. 
I've  come  to  warn  thee,  maid,  desist 
Your  arts  to  ply  on  Louis,  and  list : 
Thy  creed  accursed  between  us  stands 
Like  towering  rock,  like  sinking  sands. 
This  chasm  deep,  which  naught  can  span, 
Parts  our  kindred,  race  and  clan. 


Among  the  Pioneers 


BRIMBURY 

Ah,  sir,  why  dost  thou  thus  adhere 
To  doctrines  obsolete,  austere  ? 
I  pity  thee,  thy  heart  will  starve 
While  love  its  runes  will  elsewhere  carve. 
Thou  seest  thorns  which  ne'er  will  sting, 
And  in  your  blinded  wrath  wouldst  fling 
These  thorns  aside,  but  buds  unseen 
Fall  victims  to  your  zealous  spleen. 

ADELHEID  (to  her  father.) 
O  father,  please  rebuke  him  not. 
He  loves  his  son.     I  pray  allot 
To  him  the  right  to  plead  his  cause, 
As  he  perceives  and  sees  God's  laws. 
The  object,  less  than  failing  eye, 
Doth  our  searching  mind  belie. 

(To  ABNER.) 

And,  sir,  permit  me  yet  to  add 
Thy  estimate,  it  makes  me  sad. 
Why  should  not  Louis  and  I  agree, 
While  oak  and  elm  and  maple  tree, 
Each  in  his  way,  God's  praise  proclaim  ? 
And  onward,  upward  strive  and  aim  ? 
If  ever  I  did  thee  offend, 
Your  pardon,  sir,  I  pray  extend. 

ABNER 

All  argument  to  naught  will  lead, 
Unless  thou  wilt  my  claims  concede. 
Concerning  Louis,  my  curse  is  thine, 
I'll  ne'er  forgive  in  life's  confine. 

i76 


Among  the  Pioneers 


(Enter  CABANO  with  his  band  oj  robbers.) 

CABANO 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  but  I'll  forgive. 
Thy  beauty  is  provocative. 
I  will  enthrone  thee  in  my  cave 
As  reigning  queen,  and  be  thy  slave : 
For  all  are  slaves ;  one  bows  to  gold ; 
Another  is  by  hate  controlled ; 
One  seeks  for  fame  —  poor  blinded  fool  — 
And  prejudice  doth  others  rule. 
But  slave  of  slaves  is  he  who  fails 
To  grasp  the  thraldom  which  regales 
Its  victims  with  a  choicer  draught 
Than  fame  e'er  won,  or  gormands  quaffed. 

BRIMBURY 

Loud  mouthed  knave,  I  did  suspect 
This  thievish  plot,  though  indirect, 
Must  be  thy  work.     But,  sir,  beware, 
Though  age  my  powers  did  impair, 
I'm  yet  thy  match. 

(Reaches  for  his  rifle,  but  is  overpowered.) 

ABNER 

Vile  scoundrel  thou ;   thou  didst  employ 
A  coward's  measure  to  decoy 
Away  the  strong,  whose  shielding  arm 
Would  keep  the  aged  and  weak  from  harm. 

CABANO 

Old  scarecrow  thou,  please  hold  your  tongue. 
Philosophers  like  me  ne'er  swung 
A  deadly  weapon  without  need 
As  long  as  cunning  would  succeed. 
177 


Among  the  Pioneers 


Humanity  with  business  mixed, 
My  motto  is.     I  have  affixed 
It  to  my  coat  of  arms,  which  shows 
A  lion's  claw,  and  fox's  nose. 

ABNER 

One  e'en  more  fitting,  I'd  suggest : 
A  rattlesnake  and  viper's  nest. 

ADELHEID 

Ah,  sir,  I  pray,  do  not  provoke 
His  anger  now.     Your  feelings  cloak. 

(Kneeling  to  Cabano.) 
If  in  your  breast  there  is  a  spark 
Of  knighthood  left  within  the  dark ; 
If  memories,  unsullied,  pure, 
Have  left  a  trace  where  thoughts  mature ; 
If  thou  a  sister  or  a  bride 
E'er  didst  with  love  and  manhood  guide, 
Then  sir,  I  pray  you,  give  us  free. 

CABANO 

In  this  respect,  we  disagree, 
Although  the  virtues  thou  didst  name 
Do  all  enhance  my  mortal  fame. 
I  must  refuse  thy  first  request, 
For  what  thou  fear'st  is  for  my  best. 
And  what  thou  lov'st  does  not  concern 
Philosophers  like  me,  who  learn 
To  prize  each  gift  within  their  reach 
While  critics  tauntingly  impeach 
Such  things  as  they  ne'er  could  achieve, 
And  thus  their  envious  souls  relieve. 
178 


Among  the  Pioneers 


ABNER  (lifting  up  Adelheid) 
Forget,  poor  child,  what  I  in  haste 
Have  said  to  thee.     And  pray,  don't  waste 
Upon  this  rascal  here  thy  breath. 

CaBANO  (knocking  Abner  down) 
Insulting  owl,  O  hell  and  death! 
Fll  teach  thee,  sir,  thy  words  to  weigh. 
But  no,  ha  ha,  I'll  not  display 
A  weakness,  sir,  which  would  but  show 
That  my  philosophy  did  grow 
Upon  the  bush  which  did  bring  forth 
Your  own  conceit,  of  little  worth. 
And  mind,  old  boy,  I'll  have  my  will, 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  honest  fill. 

ADELHEID 
Have  mercy,  sir! 

CABANO 

My  darling  dove,  make  haste,  bestir 
Thyself,  without  much  more  delay 
Thy  last  adieu  and  farewell  say 
To  this  old  hut,  whose  solid  wall 
Shall  like  a  rotten  turnip  fall 
Into  the  dust  from  whence  did  spring 
Its  strength,  its  weight,  and  everything. 
Up,  up,  my  men,  weak  tools  of  fate! 
Another  mesh  we  will  create, 
Another  link,  another  span, 
We'll  add  to  doom's  swift  caravan. 

(All  prisoners  are  bound  and  taken  out,  and 
the  house  is  set  on  fire. 

(Curtain  drops.) 
179 


Among  the  Pioneers 


ACT  IV 

(CABANO,  ADELHEID,  BRIMBURY,  and  ABNER  sit  on  robes  in  a 
cave.     The  robbers  farther  back  sing  the  following  song.) 

ROBBER'S  SONG 

We  are  the  true  princes  who  govern  this  earth ; 
We're  free  like  the  eagle,  and  rulers  by  birth. 
In  boldness  we  pillage  the  miserly  host, 
Whose  aim  is  but  riches,  whose  end  is  despair, 
If  free-hearted  fellows  like  we  ever  share, 
Without  invitation,  their  opulent  toast. 

Unceasing  we  follow,  by  darkness  obscured, 
Or  even  in  daylight,  by  cunning  secured, 
Our  calling  so  noble,  quite  free  of  pretense. 
And  when  we  have  gathered  the  surplus  of  man, 
Whose  means,  oft  ill  gotten,  are  ample,  we  plan 
A  jollification  in  consequence. 

JTis  true  they  will  hang  us  if  caught  in  a  trap, 
While  thieves  more  pretentious  are  filling  their  lap 
With  honors  and  treasures,  oft  shielded  by  rank, 
Yet  do  we  not  envy  their  hollow  conceit, 
For  what  we  have  stolen  we  drink  and  we  eat, 
While  others  dispose  of  their  plunder  less  frank. 

In  winter  and  summer,  in  cold  and  in  heat, 
This  cavern  so  spacious  is  our  retreat. 
Here  do  we  endeavor  most  righteous  to  dwell. 
They  call  us  law-breakers,  and  doubtless  we  are, 
But  penance  and  prayer  the  devil  will  bar 
From  dragging  triumphant  us  down  into  hell. 
180 


Among  the  Pioneers 


BRIMBURY 

Nor  need  ye  fear  the  Devil  bold, 
If  true  repentance  doth  enfold 
Its  gracious  and  its  saving  wings. 
But  ah,   I  fear  the  King  of  kings 
Such  feigning  surely  will  condemn, 
E'en  more  than  theft.     Such  strategem 
Can  easily  mislead  the  throng 
Of  thoughtless  men.     But  Satan's  prong 
Inclined  toward  treachery  and  lies, 
Strikes,  swift  and  sure,  him  who  defies 
The  Golden  Rule,  the  highest  law, 
A  rule  devoid  of  every  flaw, 
Which  even  teaches  us  to  treat 
The  speechless  beast  with  love  replete. 

ABNER 

What  wilt  thou,  man  ?    These  fellows  here, 
Whose  love  for  God  is  weak,  whose  fear 
Is  greater  far  of  him  with  hoofs, 
Try  to  subdue  their  soul's  reproofs 
By  self-deceit,  as  doth  the  fowl, 
Which  in  the  desert  loves  to  prowl, 
Tries  to  escape  by  hiding  swift 
Its  silly  head  beneath  the  drift. 

BRIMBURY 

And  superstition  roots  and  thrives 
Where  only  ignorance  survives. 

CABANO 

What,  preaching  here,  you  ninnies  both  ? 
'Tis  true,  these  fellows  here,  I'm  loth 
To  say,  have  not  as  yet  imbibed 
The  virtues  to  the  wise  ascribed. 
181 


Among  the  Pioneers 


But  why  this  fuss,  why  this  ado  ? 
Is  not  each  grain  which  ever  grew 
Outweighed  by  chaff  and  worthless  straw  ? 
Philosophers  like  me,  who  saw 
Enough  of  life  in  shine  or  shade, 
Are  satisfied  the  world  was  made 
Not  for  the  special  use  of  man, 
But  man,   it  seems,  in  nature's  plan, 
Has  been  devised  to  share  with  all 
That  life  can  claim,  or  death  can  call 
As  victims  in  time's  doubtful  course, 
The  gifts  that  spring  from  nature's  source. 

(He  muses  a  while.) 

Were  given  I  to  thought  profound, 
I'd  try  to  prove  and  to  expound 
That  theories,  though  great  and  grand, 
Are  bubbles  which  we  can  expand 
No  farther  than  their  true  confines ; 
And  that  in  all  that  lives  there  shines 
A  trace  of  reason,  feeble  though, 
Seen  in  the  acts  of  beings  low, 
While  in  the  sturdiest  human  mind, 
We  folly  meet,  and  failings  find. 
What  proves  this  all  ?     It  proves  to  me 
That  naught  on  earth  can  perfect  be. 

BRIMBURY 

It  proves  to  me,  perfection  lies 
In  God  alone,  whose  hand  supplies 
All  kindred  creatures  of  his  stamp 
With  gifts  to  light  up  reason's  lamp 
To  such  degree  as  is  his  will. 
It  further  proves,  thou  dost  not  fill 
182 


Among  the  Pioneers 


The  expectations  in  thee  placed, 
By  God  and  man.     Thou  hast  disgraced 
Thy  gifts  of  mind,  thy  better  part ; 
Foul  are  thy  aims,  and  mean  thy  heart. 

CABANO 

Tut,  tut,  old  fool.     I  am  the  fruit 
Of  circumstances.     I  dispute 
The  wisdom  which  unheard  condemns  — 
But  ha!     Hello,  unpolished  gems, 
Your  noise  subdue.     What's  up?     Report! 

(Enter  two  robbers) 

IST  ROBBER  (laughing) 
Ah,  captain,  sir,  didn't  we  have  sport  ? 

2D  ROBBER 

Hush,  nonsense,  sir.     Mind  not  this  block, 
Who  shook  with  fear,  but  like  a  cock, 
Who  saw  the  eagle  change  his  course, 
Crows  out  his  triumph  till  he's  hoarse. 
The  facts  are  these :  A  Union  troop, 
No  doubt  prepared  on  us  to  swoop 
Three  miles  from  here,  near  Medlin's  Cup 
We  met  this  morn.     We  were  dressed  up 
Like  farmers,  sir,  with  ax  in  hand, 
This  dolt,  myself,  and  Johnny  Rand. 

CABANO 

Eternal  Styx !     Black,  sulphur  brand, 
Who'd  thought  of  this?     Speak,  I  command! 

20  ROBBER 

They  asked  for  traces  of  thy  camp ; 
We  swore  at  thee,  but  this  here  scamp 
183 


Among  the  Pioneers 


Came  near  betraying  all  in  haste ; 
His  chicken-heart  e'er  bravely  faced 
The  weak  and  aged,  but  when  a  foe 
An  equal  match,  his  face  doth  show, 
Then  quails  the  blustering  poltroon. 

IST  ROBBER 
Believe  him  not,  the  lying  coon. 

BRIMBURY  (sarcastic) 
Indeed,  indeed,  a  worthy  pair 
This  captain  and  disciple  fair. 
The  one  decoys  the  strong  away, 
Then  gathers  in  an  easy  prey ; 
The  other,  too,  much  talk  affords 
But  e'er  his  precious  valor  hoards. 

CABANO 

Another  word,  old  coon,  and  thou 
Shalt  feel  my  wrath,  I  swear  it  now. 

(To  2D    ROBBER.) 

Proceed,  I  say,  out  with  your  tale ! 

20  ROBBER 

We  led  them  onward  to  the  trail 
Which  Louis  and  Tom  and  cattle  thieves 
Had  lately  passed.     My  fancy  leaves 
Me  not  in  doubt,  but  that  they  now 
Press  onward,  sir,  and  not  allow 
Space  to  increase  'twixt  them  and  thee, 
Whom  they  suspect  the  thief  to  be. 

CABANO 

Well  done,  my  man.     But  let's  suppose 
The  readiness  with  which  they  chose 
The  trail  to  take  was  but  a  feint  ? 
184 


Among  the  Pioneers 


2D  ROBBER 

True,  true,  my  chief!    I  am  acquaint 
With  tactics  such  as  you've  in  view. 
And  Johnny  Rand  to  watch,  pursue, 
I've  left  behind. 

CABANO 

Thou  art  a  jewel,  man.     I  fear 
We  must  disband  and  disappear ; 
For  when  the  lion  prowls  around, 
The  jackal's  voice  must  not  resound. 
Philosophers  like  me  concede 
The  privilege  to  rule  and  lead 
To  those  whose  strength  of  arm  or  mind, 
Or  better  still,  of  both  combined, 
Can  force  all  opposition  down. 
In  other  words,  the  wise  do  frown 
On  rash  exploits  which  mostly  end 
In  such  results  which  none  can  mend. 

ABNER 

Well  spoken,  sir,  I  do  admire 
Thy  modesty,  not  to  aspire 
To  fall  in  open  fight  and  gain 
A  brave  man's  grave,  and  not  disdain. 
A  fitting  motto  in  thy  case 
Would  doubtless  be :    "  Life  and  disgrace 
Is  better  far  than  saint's  renown." 

CABANO 

Ah,  knave,  foul  knave,  I'll  knock  thee  down. 
(He  knocks  ABNER  down,  and  tramples  on  him  in  his  rage. 
BRIMBURY  and  ADELHEID  try  to  pull  him  off.    A  great  noise  is 
heard  at  the  cave's  entrance.) 

185 


Among  the  Pioneers 


CABANO 
What  means  this  noise  ?     I  am  undone ! 

(LIEUT.  YALE  of  the  troops,  springs  for- 
ward, followed  by  Louis,  TOM,  and  his 
men.) 

YALE 

Up  with  your  hands!     Drop  each  his  gun, 
Or  death,  a  mystery  to  all, 
A  fright  to  those  who  hear  his  call 
While  unprepared,  will  surely  lay 
His  stunning  hand  upon  his  prey. 

CABANO 
Ah,  Johnny  Rand !   Ah,  traitor  knave ! 

(JOHNNY  RAND,  with  hands  tied.) 
Hear  first  the  truth,  and  do  not  rave. 

Louis 

This  fellow  here,  you  truly  called 
A  knave,  yet,  sir,  he  skipped  and  crawled, 
In  eagerness  he  watched  and  chased, 
And  overlooked  us,  who  retraced 
Our  hopeless  course.     By  him  not  seen 
We  gained  his  rear  through  the  ravine. 
The  rogue  knew  us,  and  we  knew  him, 
And  here  we  are.     Though  drear  and  dim, 
The  owl  and  groundhog  here  will  dwell 
When  thou  art  hanged,  thou  beast  of  hell. 

CABANO     (to  Louis) 
Thou  art  the  wretch  who  stood  between 
Me  and  these  woodland's  fairy-queen. 
186 


Among  the  Pioneers 


My  life  misguided,  without  aim, 

In  darkness,  sir,  from  whence  it  came, 

Again  may  end.     These  two  old  crows 

Derided  me ;  my  gall  still  flows. 

I  challenge  thee  to  mortal  fight. 

But,  sir,  beware.     This  hand  did  smite, 

Antagonists  who  were  thy  peer. 

Louis 

I  fear  thee  not.     Yet  thy  career 
Of  stealth,  of  cruelty,  and  shame 
Deserves  the  rope  which  thee  will  claim. 

CABANO 

I  pray  thee,  sir,  not  me  to  spare, 
But  to  comply.     I  am  aware 
My  vain  career,  my  hopeless  trend, 
In  death  obscure,  now  soon  must  end. 
Give  me  one  chance  to  wash  the  taint 
Of  cowardice  without  restraint 
Off  from  my  name,  and  thanks  be  thine. 

Louis 

Thy  offer,  sir,  I  must  decline. 
The  wary  fox  caught  in  a  trap 
Thinks  just  as  thou.     Misfortune's  lap 
Has  ever  been  the  hatching  place 
Of  good  intentions  to  retrace 
The  erring  step.     Yet  like  the  fox, 
Whose  innate  stealth  forever  mocks 
The  thought  of  honesty  and  truth, 
So  doth  the  lie  thy  heart  pollute. 

YALE 

Enough  of  words.     The  hornet  stings 
E'en  when  deprived  of  legs  and  wings. 
187 


Among  the  Pioneers 


We  have  not  come  here  to  debate 
Such  topics  as  now  agitate 
The  tender  strings  in  this  scamp's  breast, 
Who  soon  will  be  in  bracelets  dressed. 

CABANO 

Enough  insult !    My  last  resort 
I  must  exhaust.     Revenge,  pour  forth 
Like  lightning-flash,  strike  this  man's  heart, 

(Pointing  to  Louis.) 

Who  could  have  saved  me  from  shame's  dart. 
(He  springs  toward  ADELHEID  with  a  keen  dagger,  with  intent  to 
stab  her,  but  ABNER  trips  him,  and  he  falls  on  his  own  weapon, 
mortally  wounded.) 

Louis  (springing  to  ADELHEID 's  side,  speaking  to  ABNER) 
O  God  be  thanked  that  he  did  fail! 
My  father  dear,  thy  will  prevail. 
No  longer  will  I  thy  command 
In  selfishness  despise,  withstand. 
For  thou  hast  saved  her.     Even  more, 
His  dreadful  vengeance  to  the  core 
Came  near  to  strike  thy  son.     Have  thanks. 

ABNER 

My  naughty  boy,  e'en  fate  loves  pranks. 
The  wisdom  which  in  school  we  learn 
Oft  fails,  when  tested,  I  discern. 
My  theories,  which  yesterday 
Reached  to  the  skies  in  grand  array, 
Have  fled  before  this  sweet  child's  smile, 
Are  banished  now,  and  in  exile. 

ADELHEID 

Oh  father,  speak.     My  heart  stands  still. 
188 


Among  the  Pioneers 


BRIMBURY 

Fear  not,  my  child,  'twas  all  God's  will, 
His  ways  are  not  the  ways  of  man. 
A  labyrinth  is  His  life-plan, 
Which  we,  without  the  leading  thread, 
Ne'er  could  explore.     This  crisis  led 
To  such  results  as  none  foresaw. 

ABNER 

And  thou  shalt  be  my  child-in-law, 
And  love  shall  bind  me  as  it  bound 
My  truant  boy  to  thee. 

CABANO 

This  crisis,  too,  brought  on  my  doom ; 
My  spirit  fades  away  in  gloom. 
For  generations  past  my  clan 
From  plunder  lived,  more  often  than 
From  honest  toil.     "  Dam  in  the  sea, 
The  storm  in  chains  attach  to  thee"; 
Reform  the  fox,  who  e'er  will  steal, 
Than  try  thy  skill  on  men,  who  feel 
The  lash  of  law,  the  sting  of  shame, 
And  also,  too,  vice's  innate  flame, 
Which  centuries  ago,  did  blaze, 
In  sire's  hearts,  with  scorching  rays. 

ADELHEID 
I  pity  thee,  thou  poorest  man. 

CABANO 
Then  pray  hand  me  that  water  can. 

(He  drinks.) 

Ah,  thou  art  kind.     My  sullied  life 
Disgusted  me.     In  earnest  strife 
189 


Among  the  Pioneers 


I  often  tried  my  course  to  mend, 
But,  rudderless,  divined  my  end, 
And  drifted  back,  now  here  to  sink. 

Louis 
Despair  not,  man!     Another  drink! 

CABANO  (after  drinking) 
I  pray  not,  Lord,  for  me  in  fear 
That  selfish  prayer  offends  thine  ear ; 
Nor  dare  I  raise  my  voice  to  pray 
For  those  my  hand  did  try  to  slay, 
And  who  my  intercession  weak 
Can  easy  spare,  and  ne'er  will  seek. 
But,  Lord,  my  thanks,  thanks  most  sincere 
Accept,  I  pray,  with  willing  ear, 
For  leaving  childless  me  to  die ; 
The  worm  of  vice  will  multiply 
In  me  no  more,  which  I,   though  late, 
With  all  my  heart  appreciate. 
(He  dies.) 

Louis 

Uncommon  man.     His  end  doth  show 
Philosophers  like  him  may  know 
Not  how  to  live,  yet  his  last  breath 
Showed  he  could  die  a  worthy  death. 

The  End 


IQO 


STRIFE   AND   PEACE 
A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

Dramatic  Personnel 
NATE,  a  volunteer. 
MARTIN  SIMMS,  a  miner. 
MR.  ENGLESBY,  a  farmer. 
MRS.  ENGLESBY,  his  wife. 
MAUD,  their  daughter. 
MORTIMER  GLENN,  an  adventurer. 
MR.  SOMBRE,  a  farmer. 
MARY  GREEN,  a  friend  of  Maud. 
GEN.  DUVAL. 
GEN.  SWIFT. 
COL.  BRIDESLEE. 
CAPT.  ELBOW. 
An  army  surgeon. 
Five  prospectors. 
MR.  CARROL,  a  philanthropist. 

ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     (Iowa,  a  rough  hillside.) 
(Enter  MARTIN  SIMMS,  a  miner,  with  pick-ax  in  hand.) 
SIMMS.     Thy  womb,  O  earth,  with  treasures  filled  to  burst, 
Again  I  pierce,  in  search  for  wealth  accursed : 
Still,  not  accursed,  for  when  e'en  gold  doth  fail 
With  statesman's  art  combined,  lead  may  prevail. 
Both  lead  and  steel,  when  justice  is  outraged, 
Oft  right  the  wrong  by  mean  oppressors  waged. 

(Picks  up  a  chip  and  scans  it  closely.) 
IQI 


Strife  and  Peace 


Ah,  mother  earth,  with  foresight  planned  and  built 
Wert  thou,  and  not  by  chance  in  space  outspilt ; 
Though  precious  metals  thy  intestines  fill, 
O'er  which  the  greedy  quarrel,  well  or  ill. 
Thou  givest  us,  too,  an  antidote  to  break 
The  tyrant's  rule,  which  causes  them  to  quake. 

(Enter  JOHN  ENGLESBY,  smoking  a  clay  pipe.) 
ENGLESBY.     Your  prospects  good?    Ah,  friend,  strike  sturdy 

blows ; 

The  mother  lode  lay  bare ;  strike  hard,  who  knows 
How  soon  the  product  of  this  barren  hill 
Shall  be  required  muskets'  mouths  to  fill  ? 
For  slavery,  the  greatest  curse  of  all 
Which  erring  men  can  here  on  earth  befall 
Or  ever  meet,  in  boldness  now  doth  raise 
Its  hydra-heads  with  hatred  fierce  ablaze. 

SIMMS.     I  see  it  come,  the  muffled  sounds  I  hear, 
Whose  clamor  shall  dismay  the  proud,  who  sneer 
At  equal  rights,  God's  foremost  gift  to  man. 
Huge  shadows  float,  such  spectres  as  foreran 
All  epochs  great.     Presageful  I  perceive 
That  awful  strife  will  soon  asunder  cleave 
The  North  and  South,  engaged  in  bloody  war, 
And  feel  its  scourge  approaching  from  afar. 

ENGLESBY  (examining  a  piece    of   quartz)     This    landscape 

rough,  with  stunted  oaks  bedecked, 
Unfruitful,  sear,  with  boulders  strewn  and  checked, 
Reminds  me  oft  of  men  whose  outer  garb, 
Unpromising,  seems  naught  but  thorn  and  barb. ; 
Yet,  deep  concealed,  reached  but  by  those  who  seek, 
Are  treasures  found,  most  rare,  which  do  bespeak 
That  precious  wealth  in  hidden  shaft  abounds 
Far  oftener  than  where  blithe  laughter  sounds. 

192 


Strife  and  Peace 


SIMMS.     The  mountains,  hills,  so  vast,  are  similar 
All  o'er  the  earth,  seen  near  or  from  afar, 
Yet  one  the  purest  gold  alone  doth  guard 
While  baser  metals  our  search  reward 
In  other  parts.     The  deadly  lead  as  well 
As  precious  quartz,  in  human  minds  doth  dwell. 

(Enter  NATE,  excited?) 

NATE.     The  dice  are  cast,  fate  will  now  raise  his  arm, 
And  in  his  track  death's  messengers  will  swarm, 
Destroying  swift,  what  patient  work  and  toil 
Have  wrested  from  both  elements  and  soil. 
The  war  is  on.     Ft.  Sumpter's  brazen  guns 
Are  quieted  by  those  whom  freedom  shuns. 
The  war  is  on.     And  futile,  vain,  and  weak, 
Are  measures  now,  such  as  for  peace  would  seek. 
The  hurricane  is  naught  compared  with  man, 
Whose  selfishness  and  rage  we  daily  scan. 

SIMMS.    No  error,  friend  ?   Though  long  I  feared  'twould 
come. 

NATE.     Ah,  everywhere  now  sounds  sedition's  drum. 

ENG.    Alas,  alas!    Much  noble  blood  will  flow 
Ere  peace  will  reign,  ere  force  will  overthrow 
The  hosts  in  arms,  prepared  to  stand  or  fall, 
To  die.     Aye,  die  far  sooner  than  recall 
The  stern  decree,  in  darker  ages  hatched, 
When  might  was  right,  and  cunning,  worth  outmatched. 
In  infancy,  our  nation  overlooked 
The  noxious  germ  of  slavery,  and  brooked 
The  consequences  which  at  first  were  small, 
Which  grew  and  spread,  wise  thinkers  to  appall. 
If  anywhere  blame  rightfully  can  rest 
Our  forefathers  with  it  should  be  assessed. 
193 


Strife  and  Peace 


This  generation's  blame  did  but  consist 
In  weakness,  and  a  strong  desire  to  twist : 
A  wrong  inherited,  to  take  the  shape 
Of  righteousness,  from  self-loath  to  escape. 

NATE.     I'll  haste  to  join  the  forces  of  the  North 
Now  gathering,  and  will  devote  henceforth 
My  modest  gifts,  my  feeble  strength  and  force, 
To  free  the  slaves,  whom  clanking  chains  divorce 
From  rights  divine,  who  now  in  bondage  yearn, 
While  their  oppressors  proud  refuse  to  learn 
Such  lessons  as  the  onward  trend  of  time 
Propounds  to  all,  in  ev'ry  state  and  clime. 

ENG.     Aye,  aye,  the  time  will  come,  and  come  it  must 
When  justice  will  triumph,  when  in  the  dust 
The  fetters  fall,  which  now  to  our  shame 
Reduce  a  race,  whose  only  fault  and  blame 
Is  shade  of  skin,  who  otherwise  as  we 
Both  love  and  hate,  and  long  for  liberty. 

SIMMS.     Thou  speak'st  my  mind.     But  Nate,  my  boy, 

my  friend, 
Act  not  in  haste,  the  dangers  comprehend. 

NATE.     I  comprehend  that  overripe  the  time 
That  we  must  strike,  that  wavering  is  a  crime. 
There  is  a  time  when  leisure  is  a  grace, 
And  other  times  when  deeds  are  more  in  place. 
The  harvest  comes  not  when  it  suits  our  whim, 
But  when  matured  the  grain.     My  life,  each  limb 
I'll  gladly  risk,  if  such  a  sacrifice 
Can  right  the  wrong  which  time  e'er  multiplies. 

SIMMS.     O  noble  youth.     A  secret  pang  and  pain 
My  wasted  heart  doth  mournful  entertain. 
194 


Strife  and  Peace 


A  son  like  thee  would  swell  with  pride  my  breast ; 
I  miss  the  child  which  I  might  have  caressed. 

NATE.     An  outcast,  too,  am  I,  unknown  to  kin, 
And  often,  too,  I  felt  that  pang  within. 
Yet  why  repine  ?     Love  never  was  confined 
To  limits,  such  as  kindred  e'er  combined. 
Love,  like  the  atmosphere,  and  light  of  day, 
Like  morning  dew,  like  rippling  fountain's  spray, 
Refreshes  all,  skips  only  those  who  hide 
While  time  speeds  on,  and  only  shades  abide. 

(The  curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  II 
(In  ENGLESBY'S  log  house,  front  room) 

(MAUD,  MR.  and  MRS.  ENGLESBY.) 
MAUD.     O  foolish  war!     O  men  devoid  of  wit. 
MRS.  E.     Why  foolish,  child?    Though  cruel,  I  admit. 

MAUD.     My  mother  dear,  I  truly  sympathize 
With  those  poor  slaves  debarred  from  exercise 
Of  inborn  rights.     Yet  foolish,  rash,  and  bold 
It  doth  appear.     For  why  should  we  uphold 
And  why  defend  a  cause  which  doth  concern 
Not  our  state  ?     When  will  men  ever  learn 
To  prize  the  love  which  they  at  home  could  gain 
Instead  their  blood  in  rash  exploits  to  drain. 

ENG.     True,  true  enough.     Most  wars  had  e'er  their 

source 

In  selfishness,  inclined  to  gain  by  force 
Such  ends  as  truth  and  justice  would  condemn. 

MRS.  E.     The  southerners  repeat  this  stratagem. 


Strife  and  Peace 


ENG.     We  have  no  choice,  the  crisis  must  be  met. 
If  we  this  curse  faint-hearted  now  abet, 
And  thus  escape  from  momentary  pain 
We'll  reap  in  time  a  fearful  hurricane. 
Injustice  thrives  like  weeds,  the  plague,  and  pest, 
If  not  in  time  by  proper  means  redressed. 

MRS.  E.     A  grievous  thing  is  war  and  mortal  strife. 

ENG.     Yet  not  the  greatest  loss,  the  loss  of  life. 
The  loss  of  self-respect  is  more  by  far ; 
Ideals  shattered  like  a  fallen  star 
Leave  naught  behind.     No  future  doth  invite 
The  soul  despairing  of  eternal  right. 
But  death,  if  faced  in  such  a  cause  as  this, 
Gives  hope  to  reach  beyond  the  dark  abyss. 
(Exit  MR.  and  MRS.  E.) 

(MAUD  alone.) 

MAUD.     I  feel  'tis  true,  each  word  my  parent  spoke. 
I,  too,  a  slave,  but  mine's  anothers  yoke. 
Oh,  despot  love.     Yet  willingly  we  yield, 
Thou  ruler  of  the  greater  battlefield. 
Thy  realm  exists  wherever  life  appears ; 
Thy  gifts  are  joy  and  often  bitter  tears. 

(She  sobs.) 

They  tell  me,  Nate,  that  feeble-looking  lad 
Whose  love  I  scorned,  has  gone  his  strength  to  add 
Where  moral  force  of  highest  grade  alone 
Can  win  the  day.     Alas,  could  I  atone 
And  ease  his  mind!     But  nay,  he  came  too  late. 
O  Mortimer,  my  love  is  thine.     My  fate 
Is  hinged  to  thee.      O  God,  I  pray  thee,  hear! 
Save  him  for  me,  shield  him  in  his  career. 
(Exit.     Curtain  falls.) 
196 


Strife  and  Peace 


SCENE  III. 

(Enter  MORTIMER  GLENN,  SIMMS,  and  SOMBRE  a  neighbor.) 

MORT.     The  time's  unrest  infective  doth  appear; 
While  Nate  goes  south,  I  now  will  westward  steer. 
I'm  not  a  beast  e'er  thirsting  for  the  gore 
Of  those  who  differ  in  their  inmost  core 
From  my  convictions,  even  though  I  feel 
I'm  quite  a  match  for  such  a  one  whose  zeal 
Crops  out  at  sight  of  other  mortal's  ways, 
And  thus  his  incapacity  betrays. 

SIMMS  (sarcastically) 
Capacity?    The  term  is  qualified. 
Thou,  who  art  thinking  now  thyself  to  hide, 
Art  capable  as  is  the  hare,  whose  heels 
Are  visible,  when  danger  near  him  steals. 

MORT.     Peace,  peace,  old  coon.     Since  when  art  thou 

so  brave  ? 

Old  badger,  thou,  go  hence  into  thy  cave ; 
Go  dig  for  lead,  in  darkness  search  and  prowl ; 
Spare  men  like  me  from' thy  satanic  scowl. 

SOMBRE.     I  pray  you,  sir,  his  crippled  limbs  observe. 
He  stood  the  test,  and  showed  his  splendid  nerve. 

MORT.     What's  nerve  to  me?      By  other   means   I'll 

sway. 

Success  is  his  who  knows  how  to  array 
Opposing  elements  with  skilful  hand, 
To  fight  his  battles  and  thereby  expand 
His  usefulness.     He's  lord  and  king  who  rules 
Not  by  rude  force,  but  by  the  aid  of  fools, 
Who,  cheaply  bought  by  flattery,  devote 
Their  clumsy  gifts,  his  scheming  to  promote. 
(Smiles  at  SIMMS,  and  slaps  him  on  the  shoiilder.) 
197 


Strife  and  Peace 


And  thus,  you  see,  my  venerable  sage, 

'Tis  wisdom,  sir,  that  counts,  not  size  nor  age. 

SIMMS.    Ah,  wisdom,  sir  ?    The  article  on  tap 
Which  thou  outpour'st,  in  which  thou  dost  enwrap 
Thy  precious  self,  is  wisdom  even  less 
Than  dross  is  gold,  or  tiger's  paws,  caress. 

MORT.     Gold,  yes,  gold,  ah,  precious  gold  to  seek, 
This  is  my  aim.     While  others  steam  and  reek 
From  human  blood,  shed  with  an  aim  to  please 
Their  own  fantastic  whim,  I  grasp  and  seize 
The  chance  now  offered,  not  alone  to  snap 
My  finger  at  old  Abe's  recruiting  trap, 
But  to  obtain  the  gold  which  fate  in  heaps 
Has  stored  away  for  him  who  overleaps 
Such  paltry  scruples  as  the  common  thrall 
E'er  holds  in  awe.     What  can  a  man  befall 
Who  has  the  gold  which  can  unlock  all  hearts  ? 
With  gold,  I'll  buy  the  fame  which  hero's  arts 
Ne'er  can  attain.     Distinction  and  renown 
Is  his  who  holds  the  precious  wealth,  the  crown 
Of  all  that  fate  doth  offer  to  mankind ; 
E'en  love  it  buys,  though  poets  call  it  blind. 

SIMMS.     Aye,  love  it  buys,  the  kind  akin  to  thine, 
An  equal  trade,  a  trade  which  doth  combine 
A  knave  and  fool,  the  first,  in  mammon's  toils, 
The  last,  a  sport  of  fate  in  life's  turmoils. 
And  fame  it  buys  ?    Ah,  truly,  sir,  no  doubt. 
Yet  fame  bought  thus  remains  as  dead  throughout 
Its  short-lived  reign,  as  marble  carved  by  hands 
Unskilled.     Thrice  blessed  is  he  who  understands 
God's  sacred  laws,  whose  genius  doth  teach 
Him  how  to  gain  the  wealth  within  his  reach 
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Without  oppressing  weaker  fellow-man, 

Who,  less  discerning,  end  where  he  began. 

Thrice  blessed,  I  say,  if  wealth  gained  thus  is  spent 

Unselfishly  for  those  whom  accident 

May  overtake ;    or  for  the  sick  and  poor, 

Whose  blessings  will  in  gratefulness  conjure 

A  spirit  called  content,  which  e'er  will  wait 

On  such  a  one  whose  love  is  his  estate. 

SOMBRE.     Thou  speakest  well.     Thy  utterance  is  true. 
Stern  truth  will  live,  and  e'er  its  course  pursue 
While  sophistries,  in  glittering  garments  clad, 
Are  dead  ere  born,  extinct  their  vital  thread. 

MORT.     No  sophistries.     The  wealth  I  seek  is  real. 
Your  sentiments  to  theorists  appeal, 
Who  waste  their  lives  in  reveries  morbose, 
Which  lead  to  naught.     While  yet  life's  current  flows, 
In  its  full  strength,  I  shall  not  rest  nor  tire, 
To  gain  my  end,  my  one  supreme  desire. 
Ah,  give  me  gold,  and  friends  and  foes  alike 
Will  humbly  bow,  and  most  submissive  strike 
Their  breasts,  confirming  their  esteem  profound, 
And,  echo-like,  'twill  hundred-fold  resound. 
Ah,  give  me  gold,  and  valor  I  can  spare, 
And  critics,  with  their  vain  and  shallow  ware, 
I'll  placate  soon,  for,  like  the  carrion  kite, 
On  refuse  they  will  sate  their  appetite. 

SIMMS.     I'll  not  deny  that  men  of  wealth  impress 
With  awe  or  fear,  the  multitude  who  bless 
Them  not.     Yet  clear  it  is,  thy  wealth,  not  thou, 
Is  worshipped  thus.     While  one,  'neath  brazen  brow 
His  envy  hides,  his  hatred  fierce  conceals, 
Another  one,  his  fear  and  dread  reveals, 
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By  cringing  low  before  the  foot  of  him 

Who,  armed  with  gold,  is  well  prepared  to  dim 

Or  to  increase  the  luster  of  glad  eyes. 

A  blessing  or  a  curse,  great  wealth  implies. 

A  modest  beast  is  he,  who  lives  and  thrives 

As  critics  do,  on  offal,  and  connives 

At  glaring  wrongs,  if  men  of  wealth  do  steep 

Their  grasping  hands  in  guilt.     But  should  fate 'sweep 

Aside  the  mammon  which  their  souls  adore, 

The  critic  doth  of  all  the  loudest  roar, 

Condemning  them.     And  none  but  he  alone 

Whom  thou  didst  aid,  when  need  pressed  forth  his  moan, 

Will  stand  by  thee,  when  other  men  annoy 

The  fallen  idol  with  malignant  joy. 

MORT.     The  burden  of  thy  stale,  insipid  song 
Affects  not  me.     Old  fellow,  go  along. 

SOMBRE.     Why,  let  him  speak ;  check  not  the  fountain's 

flow. 

List  thou,  O  man :   as  scarce  as  winter's  snow 
In  summer  time,  are  men  with  speech  equipped 
Who  dare  with  words  of  doubtful  meaning  stripped 
The  truth  to  voice,  the  ever-lasting  truth, 
The  stepping-stone  to  reach  eternal  youth. 

SIMMS.     My  time's  soon  up,  and  I  must  haste  away ; 
Another  word,  and  I'll  have  said  my  say. 
E'en  should  your  fortunes  never  thee  forsake, 
Your  greed  for  more  will  from  thy  slumbers  take 
The  rest  and  peace  which  greater  hearts  refresh. 
And  day  by  day,  the  never-slackening  mesh 
Of  mammon's  net  will  tighten  and  obscure 
All  else  but  gain,  and  thus  a  state  mature 
Of  disregard  towards  nobler  aims  and  deeds ; 
And  when  advanced  in  years,  your  nature  feeds 

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Strife  and  Peace 


Not  on  the  joys  which  God  with  hand  profuse 

Outspreads  for  those  who  never  did  misuse 

The  pound  of  wealth  entrusted  to  their  care 

Or  gifts  of  genius,  or  talents  rare, 

But  on  the  fear  which  certainty  creates 

That  death,  the  leveler  of  all  estates, 

Will,  at  one  stroke,  the  substance  gained  in  years, 

Which  indispensible  to  thee  appears, 

Make  valueless,  and  lay  thee  low  beside 

The  beggar,  whom  in  life  thou  didst  deride, 

But  who  in  peace  and  hope  closed  life's  account, 

While  dark  despair  will  drown  you  in  its  fount, 

And  when  entombed,  for  worms  a  choice  repast, 

Your  former  friends,  whom  you  forsook  when  blast 

Or  storm  them  helpless  found,  whom  you'd  divest 

Of  the  last  pittance  they  on  earth  possessed, 

They  will  not  weep,  nor  will  the  curious  throng 

Indulge  in  tears,  or  heart-felt  mourning  song. 

And  when  your  grave  is  filled  with  kindred  dust, 

Your  heirs  begin  each  other  to  mistrust, 

And,  quarreling  for  thy  estate,  forget 

The  wretch  who  throve  on  brother's  tears  and  sweat. 

But  let's  be  off.     'Tis  vain  to  preach  to  those 

Whose  single  thought  in  narrow  channels  flows. 

(Exit  SOMBRE  and  SIMMS.) 

MORT.     Ah,  vain  indeed.     Your  bray,  old  fool,  suspend. 
Would  I  such  rules  as  these  observe,  I'd  end 
In  poverty,  as  all  the  heroes  do, 
Who  like  thyself,  misleading  paths  pursue. 

(Walking  the  -floor  and,  musing?) 

Why  all  this  fuss  ?     'Tis  gold  I  want,  ah,  gold. 
All  else  in  time  will  come,  ere  I  am  old. 

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Strife  and  Peace 


Experience,  which  every  day  we  gain, 
The  earth-born  pilgrim  oft  doth  entertain 
With  solid  lumps  of  wisdom  knocked  into 
His  whole  make-up,  to  stick  like  pitch  and  glue. 
But  gold  alone,  the  greatest  living  force 
'Neath  heaven's  dome,  e'er  takes  another  course. 
'Though  the  unthinking  throng  has  ample  sense 
To  know  its  value  and  its  consequence ; 
Yet  most  of  them,  like  gobblers  blind  with  rage, 
O'erleap  the  mark,  while  shrewder  men  engage 
This  wasted  force,  with  rare,  unfailing  skill, 
Their  ready  purse  with  ringing  gold  to  fill. 
(Knocking.    Enter  MAUD.) 

MORTIMER  (bowing  to  her).    Good  cheer  be  thine!    And 

how  dost  thou  enjoy 

The  time  propitious,  with  those  who  employ 
Its  moments  rare,  as  thou  hast  ever  done, 
Who  smile  when  glad,  and  aim  distress  to  shun  ? 

MAUD.    Ah,  thanks  to  thee !   Yet  'tis  no  virtue  great 
To  hoard  the  sunbeams,  fleeting  swift  like  fate. 
And  if  distress  in  bygone  days  did  spare 
Me  with  its  sting,  yet  am  I  well  aware 
That  those  immune  from  daily  harm  and  pain 
Fall  victims  oft,  to  greater  evil's  train. 

MORTIMER.     Ah,  what  a  thought !    Why,  thou  art  really 

pale. 
What  aileth  thee?    What  harm  did  thee  assail? 

MAUD  (excited  and  Hushing).    Thou  errest,  sir!    As 

usual,  quite  well 

To-day  I  am,  and  hope  time  will  dispel 
And  rout  the  phantoms,  which,  in  somber  views 
The  future  paints,  in  most  disheartening  hues. 
(Drops  her  face  in  her  hands) 

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Strife  and  Peace 


MORTIMER  (confused,  aside).      I'm  certain  now  her  love 

is  mine  for  aye, 
And  she'll  be  cheered,  if  I  my  aims  betray. 

(Aloud  to  her.) 

I've  come  to-day  —  preparing  to  depart  — 
To  greet  thee,  and  enjoy  before  I  start 
Another  smile,  one  of  the  cheerful  kind, 
Which  on  thy  face  a  worthy  playground  find ; 
And  which,  when  I  am  gone,  my  lonely  hours 
Will  consolate,  when  care  my  soul  devours. 

MAUD.     I  have  forseen  that  it  would  come  to  this, 
For  war  is  like  a  dire  precipice, 
Which  swallows  up  the  flower  of  the  land. 
Yet  go  thou  hence,  I  will  not  plaintive  stand 
'Twixt  thee  and  what  thy  conscience  doth  advise ; 
Not  men  alone  should  bring  a  sacrifice. 

MORTIMER  (taking  her  hand  in  his,  and  speaking  con- 
fused^} Thou  art  misled ;   not  towards  the  bloody  field 
My  steps  I'll  lead,  but  where  the  soil  doth  yield 
Abundantly  the  yellow  grains  of  gold. 
Ah,  fare  thee  well!     May  I  again  behold 
Thyself  on  my  return,  not  sad,  distressed, 
But  by  the  fates  and  fleeting  time  caressed. 
(Exit  in  haste) 

MAUD  (alone,  on  her  knees).     Ah,   fare   thee  well,   thou 

noblest  and  best! 

Thy  pious  fraud,  invented  to  arrest 
My  selfish  fears  so  foolishly  betrayed, 
Deceives  me  not.     Alas,  have  I  not  prayed, 
O  God,  to  save  me  from  this  bitter  doom  ? 
The  one  I  love  to  spare,  and  not  entomb 
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Strife  and  Peace 


My  highest  hopes  ere  thy  fruition  found  ? 

Yet,  thanks  to  thine!    Unharmed,  quite  whole  and  sound, 

If  such  thy  will,  he  may  return  to  grace, 

Side  by  side  with  me,  his  destined  place. 

Ah,  thanks  be  thine !    A  dastard  I  despise, 

Though  live  he  may,  and  high  in  fortune  rise. 

Ah,  fare  thee  well !    A  hero  shall  compel 

And  hold  my  love.     Oh,  fare  thee,  fare  thee  well. 

(Curtain  drops) 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. 

(A  hillside  in  the  California  mountains.) 
MORTIMER  (alone  in  the  mountains).    Ah,  here  I  am, 

and  there  the  ramparts  rise 
On  lofty  heights,  ascending  towards  the  skies, 
Which  vainly  try,  with  awe-inspiring  front, 
To  scare  away  mankind,  who  e'er  are  wont 
To  seek  and  utilize,  with  rare  forethought, 
What  nature  in  her  secret  shops  hath  wrought. 

(Pausing  a  while) 
No  sentimentalist  am  I,  nor  will 
With  childish  scruples,  precious  time  I  kill. 
(He  takes  a  bag  of  gold-dust  from  his  pocket  and  scat- 
ters it  about.) 

Here  is  the  seed  which  planted  shall  produce 
With  proper  care,  a  crop  most  rich,  profuse. 
Henceforth  in  ease  my  path  I  shall  pursue ; 
I'll  sow  and  reap  —  let  lesser  spirits  rue. 
(Footsteps  heard  from  afar.     He  kneels  down  and 
gathers  some  soil  in  a  pan) 
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Strife  and  Peace 


(Enter  MR.  CARROL,  a  philanthropist.) 
CARROL.     Good  morning,  sir.     'Tis  a  refreshing  scene, 
This  landscape  here,  where  rock  on  rock  doth  lean, 
Where  nature's  hand  a  feast  for  eyes  hath  wrought 
In  grandeur  unsurpassed,  with  beauty  fraught. 

MORTIMER.     Aye,  more  than  that!    Here  in  the  dirt 

dispised 

Lies  more  than  thou  hast  ably  eulogized ; 
Here's  the  essence  which  kings  and  lords  creates, 
And  fame  obscures,  of  which  the  hero  prates. 

CARROL.     What  can  it  be  ?    Ah,  gold,  of  course,  that 

tells; 

I  know  its  force,  and  met  its  magic  spells. 
Yet,  after  all,  I'd  choose  that  which  remains 
Which  others  share  with  me,  where  each  one  gains. 
And  still  the  capital  from  which  all  draw 
Remains  intact,  where  time's  ne'er  sated  jaw 
Alone  can  mar.     I  mean  the  glorious  views 
Of  canyons  deep,  and  peaks  in  gorgeous  hues. 
Thy  claim,  if  rich,  may  bless  thyself  or  thine ; 
My  claim  as  public  wealth,  I  should  define. 
Your  claim,  when  it  is  drained,  doth  cheer  no  more  ; 
But  mine  remains,  an  inexhaustive  store. 

MORTIMER.    All  very  true,  yet  do  in  all  I  share 
Which  thou  dost  claim.     I  pray  you  to  compare 
The  lot  of  him  who  feasts  his  eye  on  things 
Which  nourish  not,  with  him  who  firmly  clings 
To  that  which  all  joy-giving  things  commands 
And  which  —  Ah,  man !     'Tis  here  beneath  my  hands. 

CARROL   (Stooping  to  look   down).     I  wish  thee  well. 

'Twill  place  thee  in  a  state 
To  help,  and  act  as  right-hand  man  of  fate 
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Strife  and  Peace 


Toward  those  less  favored  in  life's  fitful  strife, 

Who  struggle  on,  sustaining  scarce  their  life ; 

Yet  will  it  not  contentedness  secure 

Nor  wilFt  for  thee  immunity  insure 

Against  disease,  'gainst  accident  or  death, 

Which  comes  unheard,  and  steals  away  thy  breath. 

MORTIMER.    Would'st  thou  then  rather  see  the  human 

race 
In  idleness  remain,  or  pleasures  chase  ? 

CARROL.     I'd  like  to  see  the  rich  and  mighty  toil 
Enough  to  earn  their  bread,  their  salt  and  oil, 
While  they  are  young.     And  those  who  stunt  their  mind 
And  wreck  their  frame  by  overwork,  who  find 
But  scant  reward  for  toil  which  ne'er  doth  cease, 
To  them  I'd  give,  if  I  had  but  a  lease 
Of  providence,  each  day  enough  of  rest ; 
And  culture,  too,  I'd  give,  to  make  them  blessed 
As  are  the  rich,  who  fill  their  favored  place, 
With  modesty,  and  all-ennobling  grace. 
Wealth  is  a  blessing,  if  it  has  been  gained 
In  noble  strife,  not  by  oppression  stained ; 
Yet  there  are  those  whose  eye,  in  search  for  pelf, 
In  baseness  roams,  admiring  naught  but  self. 
(Exit  CARROL.) 

MORTIMER.     Ah,  hear  him  croak,  ah,  hear  the  saint  who 

sins 

In  dreams  alone,  but  waking,  ever  spins 
A  righteous  web,  intended  smaller  fry, 
Like  me,  for  instance,  mocking  to  decry. 

(Pauses.) 

Ah,  go  you  hence !   Thy  tongue  so  glib  and  smooth, 
Shall  serve  my  aims  and  purposes,  forsooth. 
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Strife  and  Peace 


'Twill  not  be  long  till  this,  my  bait,  will  draw 
The  finest  string  of  fish  I  ever  saw. 
And  then  I'll  prove,  and  prove  it  without  stint 
That  wealth  is  life,  and  life  with  something|in't. 

(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  II 

(Five  prospectors  in  camp.) 
IST  PROSPECTOR.     'Tis   tiresome,  far  more  so  than  I 

thought, 

This  chase  for  wealth,  which  so  far  only  brought 
But  disappointments,  blasted  hopes,  to  me. 
I'm  like  the  clown,  who  claimed  his  pedigree 
Assured  success,  but  in  his  summersault 
He  fell  far  short,  and  on  the  carpet  sprawled. 

2D  PROS.     Ah,  pedigrees,  in  clowns  or  common  fools, 
Including  us,  and  kings  who  sit  on  stools 
Of  gold  or  brass  to  match  their  haughty  pride, 
Are  like  the  tinsel  which  they  need  to  hide 
Their  mind's  defect,  their  heart's  contracted  state  — 
Are  valueless.     But  vanity  they  sate. 
Give  pedigrees  to  him  who  has  the  spleen. 
Give  me  for  my  sweet  babes  and  my  Kathleen 
Enough  of  that  which  some  as  mammon  spurn, 
And  others  seek  before  might's  shrine  to  burn, 
And  I,  contented  with  my  lot,  no  more 
Will  spendthrift's  harbor  seek,  nor  miser's  shore. 

3D   PROS.      I  wish   I'd  stayed  where  love  unfolds  her 

charms, 

Where  humble  hearts  now  wait,  and  open  arms. 
I,  who  in  all  my  foolish  dreams  espied 
Uncounted  wealth,  now  find  myself  belied. 
207 


Strife  and  Peace 


IST  PROS.    We  all  agree  now,  as  the  'coons  agreed, 
Which  hounds  in  search  for  sport  had  chased  and  treed, 
That  those  who  aim  too  high  may  starve  encased 
In  splendors  trim,  by  fate's  odd  pranks  misplaced ; 
While  others  in  their  low,  but  well  stored  cave, 
In  safety  find  that  which  in  vain  we  crave. 

2D  PROS.    Aye,  and  before  fate  treed  this  silly  gang 
We  all  agreed,  the  precious  metal's  clang 
And  nothing  else  should  call  the  fortune  in, 
Which  we  foresaw  would  benefit  our  kin. 
Alas,  once  more  we  learned,  ah,  far  too  well, 
That  strong  desires  man  allows  to  dwell 
Within  his  mind  until  his  judgment  sees 
Things  which  are  not,  but  seem.     He  pays  the  fees 
Which  teacher  life  exacts  for  aid  uncalled 
Yet  needed,  oft  for  our  good  installed. 

4TH  PROS.     All  silly  talk.    Zounds,  are  ye  men  or 

boys? 

Your  metal's  dross,  aye ;   far  beneath  alloys 
From  which  is  coined,  the  currency  esteemed 
And  known  as  brass,  which  is  by  many  deemed 
To  be  in  value  next  to  real  worth ; 
As  doth  the  dawn  approach  light's  sportful  mirth. 

IST  PROS.     E'en  brass,  which  may,  at  more  propitious 

times, 
Results  achieve,  is  here  like  tongueless  chimes. 

4TH  PROS.     Have  patience,  sir.  Old  Carroll,  whom  you 

know 

To  be  as  pure  as  freshly  fallen  snow, 
Looked  on,  but  yesterday  with  his  own  eyes, 
When  the  dark  stranger,  who  now  restless  plies 
His  pick  and  pan  in  yonder  barren  vale, 
Exhumed  real  dust,  which  we  to  find  did  fail. 
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Strife  and  Peace 


5TH  PROS.     'Tis  not  an  hour  since  I  met  "  Doc."  Hall, 
Who  me  informed,  Mort.  Glenn  would  surely  fall 
A  victim  to  the  fever's  threatening  jaw, 
Unless  from  hence  he  doth  in  haste  withdraw. 

IST  PROS.    Ah,  fortune's  tricks!     In  vain  we  searched 

for  wealth, 

'Though  sound  we  were.     But  he  who's  broke  in  health, 
The  treasures  found,  which  he  can't  utilize. 
He  who  digests,  oft  to  his  sad  surprise, 
Lacks  that  which  all  his  wants  could  fill  and  quench, 
And  which  dyspeptics  have,  but  must  retrench. 

30  PROS.      Not  so,  my  friend.      Suppose  we  buy  his 

rights, 

Then  we  may  thrive,  and  he,  whom  sickness  smites, 
Will  have  his  due.     And  care,  which  otherwise 
His  ills  would  swell,  will  him  no  more  surprise. 

IST  PROS.     Forget  we  now  misfortune,  failure,  drought. 

(All  together) 
Buy  him  out,  yes,  we  will  buy  him  out. 

(Curtain  drops) 

SCENE  III 

MORTIMER  (sitting  on  a  rock  eating  his  lunch,  his  horse 
tied  to  a  bush).  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  Four  times  my 
clever  ruse 

Bore  fruit  to  me.     None  can  myself  accuse 
Of  being  slow  or  dull.     I  am  but  one, 
Yet  have  I  scores  of  men  with  ease  undone, 
Who,  like  October  flies,  flock  in  my  trap 
In  thoughtless  haste.     Ah,  man,  who  dost  enwrap 
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Strife  and  Peace 


Thyself  in  pride  and  wisdom's  seeming  garb, 
Thou  art  a  dolt,  e'er  grasping  for  the  barb 
Which  such  as  I,  the  essence  of  mankind, 
Place  in  your  reach,  and  you  are  sure  to  find, 
While  we  retain,  with  foresight  rare  and  skill, 
The  flower  and  fruit  for  our  spacious  till. 

(Musing  a  while.) 

Ha,  ha,  how  did  those  precious  dupes  rush  in! 
How  sure  of  gain  they  felt,  how  they  did  grin 
While  in  their  minds  delusion's  magic  quill 
Air-castles  drew,  short-lived  and  volatile. 
The  shark  must  live,  and  since  I  am  a  shark, 
I'll  watch  for  prey  —  but  ho  there,  listen,  hark! 
(Tramping  sounds.      Enter  2d  prospector  on  horseback.) 

SECOND  PROSPECTOR.      Infernal  knave,   cheat,  r,  rogue, 

and  hypocrite! 

Disgorge  your  spoils,  or  I'll  a  deed  commit 
Which  shall  enrich,  with  your  black,  greedy  soul, 
Old  Satan's  realm.     Out  with  the  gold  you  stole. 
(Both  draw  and  fire.     2d  prospector  falls  from  his  horse.) 
Oh,  I  am  killed!  O  my  beloved  Kathleen! 
Oh  my  sweet  babes,  had  I  but  this  foreseen! 
To  die  like  this,  O  God!   slain  by  a  thief, 
Who  doth  triumph,  while  I  despair  in  grief! 
My  sweet  Kathleen,  no  more  thy  smile  shall  cheer 
The  heart  of  him  who  now  is  dying  here ! 
O  Lord!    shield  her!     My  infant  babes,  oh  guard! 
Ne'er  did  I  think  that  dying  is  so  hard. 
(He  dies.) 

MORTIMER  (very  excited).     Oh,  hellish  fiend!  Not  mur- 
der was  my  aim, 

But  wealth  alone  to  chase,  wealth  was  my  game ; 
210 


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But  thou,  oh  fiend,  who  sulphur  vapors  quaffs 
'Twixt  brimstone  walls,  and  who  now  doubtless  laughs 
At  me,  your  dupe ;   thou  who  dost  haunt  for  sport 
Earth's  woeful  creatures  with  thy  whole  cohort 
Of  frightful  images,  who  bring  dismay ; 
Thou,  who  the  Furies  dost  employ,  to  prey 
Upon  man's  rest,  when  darkness  mercy  shows, 
While  it,  its  shrouding  cloak  upon  them  throws, 
Their  sores  to  hide ;  thou  did'st  once  more  make  plain 
That  he  is  thine  who  hopes  to  entertain 
In  selfish  aims,  thy  black  and  ruthless  self, 
And  yet  escape  with  all  his  stolen  pelf. 
Fiend,  incarnate !     Who  to  thee  looks  for  aid, 
Is  lost  to  hope,  a  slave  in  bondage  laid. 

(Musing  a  while.) 

Had  I  not  all  which  I  did  need  to  thrive  ? 

Are  there  not  those  who  fate's  fell  strokes  survive 

E'en  without  wealth,  more  safely  than  the  thrall 

Who  falls  when  his  ill-gotten  wealth  doth  fall  ? 

I  see  my  guilt,  alas,  too  late,  too  late ! 

What's  done  is  done,  wherefore  equivocate  ? 

To  cheat  ourselves  is  but  a  pleasing  sham, 

"To  cheat  the  devil  or  his  worthy  dam." 

I'll  try  no  more,  for  they  are  sure  to  reap 

All  they  desire,  while  I  retain  to  keep 

Naught  but  remorse.     E'en  now  I  feel  its  pangs, 

And  see  the  doom,  which  threatening  o'er  me  hangs. 

From  hence,  from  hence!     Man's  judgement  to  frustrate 

I'll  try  at  least ;    all  else  now  seems  too  late. 

0  rustling  leaves,  O  whispering  winds,  oh  hush! 

1  dread  your  voices,  which,  accusing,  rush 
Upon  my  ear.     From  hence,  without  delay! 
I  fear  your  doubtful,  underhanded  way. 

211 


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Off,  off,  away!    Nemesis,  fearful  scourge! 
Why  beckon'st  thou  ?    What  claims  hast  thou  to  urge  ? 
(He  bounds  on  his  horse,  and  gallops  away,  as  if  the 
furies  were  upon  his  heels.) 

(Curtain  jails.) 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I. 

(A  camp  of  the  northern  army.     Officers  in  the  general's 

tent.) 

GEN.  DUVAL.     The  art  of  war  is  like  a  game  of  chess ; 
Each  move  for  well  or  ill  may  raise,  depress 
The  chances  which  each  side  must  sternly  face. 
In  war  and  peace,  each  man  must  fill  his  place, 
Or  failure  will  o'erwhelm  him  in  swift  strife , 
Be  wealth  at  stake,  or  precious  human  life. 

CAPT.  ELBOW.     In  this,  our  case,  the  stake  doth  more 

include 

Than  wealth  or  life.     'Tis  of  vast  magnitude : 
For  slavery,  a  remnant  of  an  age 
When  might  prevailed,  doth  now  brave  men  engage, 
Who  fearless  risk  what  others  prize  beyond 
All  else  on  earth  to  break  the  black  man's  bond. 

GEN.  DUVAL.    As  I  remarked,  a  well-considered  move 
Doth  count  for  much.    Would  not  a  judge  approve 
The  disposition  which  the  hard-pressed  foe 
To-day  assumed  ?    Although  we  were  not  slow, 
We  came  too  late  the  hill  beyond  to  seize 
Where  now  the  southern  colors  meet  the  breeze. 
(The  report  of  a  cannon  is  heard) 
212 


Strife  and  Peace 


COL.  BRIDESLEE.     Nor  are  they  slow  to  daunt  us,  as  you 

see, 

Or  rather  hear.     Yond  hillock  seems  the  key 
Which  may  decide  the  struggle  yet  to  face ; 
'Tis  for  their  guns  a  most  commanding  place. 

GEN.  DUVAL.    And  what  is  worse,  although  our  guns 

outmatch 

The  few  they  have,  we  can  ne'er  hope  to  catch 
Them  where  they  are,  nor  harm  them  on  that  hill, 
Which,  fortress-like,  will  baffle  our  skill. 

CAPT.  ELBOW.     'Tis  clear,  in  strength  we  are  more  than 

their  peers, 

Yet  is  their  station  such  that  pioneers 
May  well  beware.     One  side  has  ample  force, 
The  other  cunningly  has  had  recourse 
To  strategy,  and  may  yet,  in  the  end, 
Prevail  o'er  those  who  but  on  force  depend. 

GEN.  DUVAL.     Brute  force  succumbs,  when  intellect  it 

meets. 

In  all  life's  combats,  genius  defeats 
All  ruder  elements.     The  storm  in  chains, 
And  tearing  floods  in  harness  it  restrains ; 
E'en  men  who,  heedless  in  their  rage,  abuse 
Their  favored  place  in  life,  it  oft  subdues. 

(Pauses  a  while.} 

To  me  'tis  clear,  we  must  from  here  withdraw 
Or  spike  their  guns :    a  task  to  fill  with  awe 
The  stoutest  heart,  a  deed  which  hopeless  seems, 
Yet  worth  a  trial  by  one  who  life  esteems. 
A  stake  most  apt,  to  risk  in  freedom's  cause, 
Where  loss  may  gain  imply.     One  who  applause 
213 


Strife  and  Peace 


And  outward  show  doth  scorn,  a  volunteer, 
Go,  Brideslee,  seek  at  once,  and  bring  him  here. 
(Exix  BRIDESLEE) 

CAPT.  ELBOW.     I  have  in  mind  a  lad,  most  delicate 
He  doth  appear.     All  call  him  simply  Nate, 
Whose  feats  of  strength,  whose  moral  worth  bespeak 
A  fitness  for  the  task  from  which  the  weak 
May  well  recoil.     Ah,  there  at  Brideslee's  side, 
I  see  him  come,  whom  none  dare  "  coward"  chide. 

(Enter  BRIDESLEE  and  NATE.) 

NATE.    Your  servant,  sir!    The  problem  which  to  solve, 
You've  honored  me,  doth  truly  much  involve. 

GEN.  DUVAL.     Bethink  yourself,  my  son.     No  trifling 

feat 

Awaits  him  who  goes  forth  to-night  to  meet 
All  terrors  which  this  ruthless  war  has  bred, 
Which  follow  close,  where  e'er  his  footsteps  tread. 

NATE.     What  I  may  lose,  but  me  alone  affects ; 
What  I  may  gain,  may  aid  the  architects ; 
Who  build  for  hosts,  who  now  for  freedom  cry. 
What  I  may  lose,  God  lent  to  me,  and  I 
Most  willingly  repay,  when  he  his  due, 
Which  grows  and  doth  increasingly  accrue, 
From  me  demands.     What  I  may  gain,  outweighs 
A  hundred-fold  the  danger  which  dismays 
But  those  who  doubt  the  justice  of  their  deeds. 
Procrastination  e'er  on  doubting  feeds. 

COL.  BRIDESLEE.     Well  said,  brave  youth,  the  elements 

in  thee 

Forestall  success.     Thou  hast  in  high  degree 
The  proper  sense,  so  seldom  found  in  youth. 
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Strife  and  Peace 


NATE.     That  praise  I  earned,  I  earnestly  dispute. 
In  advance  paid,  your  servant  shirks  his  task ; 
When  heat  prevails,  in  sunshine  none  would  bask. 

GEN.  DUVAL.      Your  words  are  apt.      Yet  since  the 

shining  orb 

Will  soon  sink  low,  and  darkness  light  absorb, 
Reveal  thy  plans,  for  thou  shalt  have  full  sway ; 
What  means  wilt  thou  employ,  what  signs  display  ? 

NATE.     A  feint  retreat  at  once  to  execute, 
I'd  recommend.    The  night,  pitch-dark  and  mute, 
All  this  will  tend  the  foe  to  reassure. 
Ventriloquist  am  I,  and  may  allure 
The  enemy  from  where  I  chance  to  creep ; 
And  if  the  issue  such  as  we  would  reap, 
A  rocket  I  shall  animate  to  fly, 
To  show  thee  where  the  fangless  serpents  lie. 

CAPT.  ELBOW.      No  reptile  bites  while  venom  it  doth 

lack; 
Nor  engine  speeds  when  it  has  jumped  the  track. 

GEN.  DUVAL.     Your  plan's  approved.    At  once  retreat, 

retreat! 
Let  fleeting  time  us  not  of  prospects  cheat ! 

(Trumpets  and  drums  sound.     Tumult  without.) 
(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  II 

(GEN.  DUVAL  and  officers  in  tent.    Enter  GEN.  SWIFT, 
commander    of    the    southern    forces,  in    charge    of 
CAPT.  ELBOW.) 
GEN.  SWIFT  (dejected).    Pray,   sir,   accept  my  sword. 

Though  keen  its  edge, 
'Twould  folly  be  to  charge  the  living  hedge 
215 


Strife  and  Peace 


Without  the  guns,  which  doubtless  thou  did'st  fear 
And  consequently  of  their  virtue  shear. 

GEN.  DUVAL  (taking  the  sword).     I'll  not  deny  the  guns 

so  shrewdly  placed 

Did  menance  me,  and  hence  had  them  effaced. 
Self-preservation  prompted  thee  to  choose 
The  place  you  did.     Mine  is  the  same  excuse. 

GEN.  SWIFT.     I  blame  thee  not,  'tis  I  whose  prudence 

failed. 

What  demons,  sir,  were  those,  who  thus  assailed 
Us  spirit-like,  enwrapped  in  darkness'  cloak  ? 
Inferno's  prince  ne'er  struck  such  telling  stroke. 

GEN.  DUVAL.    A  prince  it  was,  untitled,  though,  and 

plain, 

A  prince  of  light  and  virtue,  in  whose  train 
No  demons  move.     One  lad,  quite  young,  alone 
Hath  thee  undone,  thy  power  overthrown. 

(Noises  without;  enter  soldiers,  surgeon,  and  NATE,  with 
his  left  arm  in  a  sling,  supported  by  a  soldier.) 

GEN.  DUVAL.    Praise   God!    My  son,  I  feared  that 

thou  wert  lost. 

A  giant's  task,  nor  at  a  strifling  cost, 
Hast  thou  achieved.     Each  drop  of  blood  which  thou 
To-night  hast  spilt,  the  pain  which  shades  thy  brow 
A  carnage  did  prevent,  the  thought  of  which 
Might  stun  the  brave.     Oft  doth  one's  deed  enrich 
The  multitude,  who  blind  and  helpless  grope, 
Who  aimlessly  debate,  despair,  and  hope 
For  remedies  to  cure  their  present  ills, 
Yet  fail,  while  one  the  common  hope  fulfils. 
216 


Strife  and  Peace 


NATE.    Praise  thou  not  me,  nor  blame  the  bird  whose 

wing 

A  snowslide  starts,  which  doth  destruction  bring 
To  those  who  dwell  within  the  path  thus  doomed. 
All  that  exists  and  ever  shape  assumed 
As  well  as  active  life  brought  forth  by  birth, 
And  intellect  which  guides  most  things  on  earth, 
Are  instruments  with  which  the  Supreme  Power 
His  ends  doth  gain,  each  day,  and  every  hour. 

GEN.  SWIFT  (bitterly).     So  doth  it  seem.     Nor  would  I 

be  surprised 

To  learn  said  instruments  thus  eulogized 
Were  all  employed,  the  Yankee  cause  to  aid, 
A  cause  for  which  they  our  rights  invade. 

NATE.    Be  just,  oh  sir!    The  human  cause,  you  mean. 
Your  inmost  thoughts  before  the  world  you  screen ; 
Yet  when  alone,  a  voice  which  ne'er  can'st  still, 
Your  conscience  moves,  your  nobler  parts  doth  thrill, 
Proclaiming  loud,  "  No  masters,  and  no  slaves, 
But  brothers  all!"  Oh,  sir,  this  curse  engraves 
A  blot  most  dark  upon  our  nation's  shield, 
Which  makes  thee  blush,  and  others  weep  concealed. 

GEN.  SWIFT.    Alas,  much  truth  thy  youthful  zeal  reveals ; 
A  heritage  which  to  our  greed  appeals, 
Is  Slavery.     We  drag  along  the  load 
Of  injustice,  which  darker  times  bestowed 
Upon  our  sires.     A  common  thing  at  first, 
A  habit  next,  and  now  a  crime  accursed. 
In  innocence  neglected  sprouts  the  seed, 
And  thrives  where  folly  reigns,  and  errors  lead. 
Its  bloom  is  shame,  and  vice  the  fruit  it  bears ; 
Why  moralize  ?    We  are  the  lawful  heirs 
217 


Strife  and  Peace 


Of  a  vile  system,  which  we  must  uphold, 
Or  poverty  will  closely  us  enfold. 

NATE.    Heroic  hearts,  and  foresight  more  than  all, 
Which  sees  the  doom  to  which  this  curse  must  fall, 
Which  kindred  souls  of  freedom  doth  deprive, 
Can  here  prevail.     Oh  why  shouldst  thou  connive 
At  things  unnatural,  whose  course  is  run, 
Whose  time  is  up,  whose  ruin  has  begun  ? 

GEN.  SWIFT.    Ah,  why  indeed?    Why  do  men  ever 

choose 

Both  wealth  and  ease,  well  knowing  they  must  lose 
It  all  again,  when  death  upon  them  calls  ? 
The  blacks  are  slaves,  we  whites  are  mammon's  thralls. 
'Tis  an  excuse  we  daily  hear  and  meet : 
"Reform  in  time:   to-day,  let's  drink  and  eat." 

NATE.     I  feel  most  faint  and  sore.     Excuse,  I  pray, 
One  who  needs  rest,  all  else  doth  brook  delay. 
(Exit  NATE  with  soldier) 

SURGEON.    Brave  fellow  he.     I  fear  his  arm  is  lost. 
To  praise  him  justly  would  myself  exhaust. 

GEN.  DUVAL.     Praise,  flattery,  both  children  of  one  sire ; 
Praise  overdone  is  sure  to  vex  and  tire 
Those  who  for  merit  seek,  not  unearned  fame. 
With  such  a  one,  praise  ever  is  the  same 
As  flattery.     The  latter  in  its  turn 
Doth  pass  as  parise.     Self-seekers  never  spurn 
Acclaim  and  noise,  and  all  that's  volatile, 
Their  empty  lives,  with  emptiness  to  fill. 

(Curtain  drops.) 


218 


Strife  and  Peace 


ACT   IV 

SCENE  I 
(In  ENGLESBY'S  log  house,  front  room.) 

(Enter  MAUD.) 

MAUD.     Bewilderment,  I  feel  I  am  thy  toy ; 
My  thoughts  confused,  half  sorrow  and  half  joy, 
Find  nowhere  rest.     I  feel  I've  cause  to  weep 
And  weep  I  should,  but  new  emotions  creep 
Through  head  and  heart,  which  heretofore  most  strange, 
Avoided  me,  elsewhere  to  romp  and  range. 
Ah  me,  what  news?    I've  looked  for  noble  deeds 
To  Mort.  alone,  yet  only  Nate  succeeds. 
Mort.  writes  of  wealth  and  ease,  and  then  confounds 
Me  with  all  else.     His  message  selfish  sounds. 

(Sobs,  but  dries  her  tears  again.) 
And  Nate,  poor  Nate,  whom  fate  may  reconcile, 
High  minded,  risked  his  life  in  Spartan  style, 
To  end  the  strife  before  death's  reaper  grim 
Began  to  mow.     To  him,  and  only  him, 
Who,  orphaned,  ne'er  a  kinsman's  love  did  know, 
All  parents  turn,  with  hearts  that  overflow 
With  gratefulness,  and  there  again  do  prove 
That  universal  love  all  things  doth  move. 
The  love  begot  by  duty  or  blood  ties 
Is  but  the  shade  of  that  which  doth  arise 
Spontaneous,  and  which,  without  restraint, 
All  may  embrace,  the  bold,  the  meek,  and  faint. 

(Takes  a  letter  from  her  bosom  and  reads.) 
DEAR  MAUD  :    Farewell.     God,  whom  I  now  invoke, 
Has  placed  me  where  I,  with  one  single  stroke, 
219 


Strife  and  Peace 


All  may  achieve,  which  otherwise  may  fail, 
E'en  though  in  force  we  should  the  foe  assail. 
Death  thus  to  meet  for  me  hath  no  dismay, 
Since  thine  affection  e'er  from  me  did  stray, 
As  doth  the  sunbeam  at  night's  swift  approach, 
As  doth  the  dove  when  enemies  encroach 
Upon  her  realm.     Alas,  couldst  thou  survey 
The  passion  which  most  merciless  did  sway 
Within  my  heart,  thou  wouldst  at  least  forgive 
When  I  am  dead  that  I  aspired  to  live ; 
Life  without  thee  its  first  incentive  lacks, 
A  void  to  me.     To  thee,  my  love's  a  tax. 
Farewell,  farewell  —  my  death,  which  I  foresee 
Doth  me  not  grieve,  may  it  bring  peace  to  thee. 

(Wiping  her  fast-flowing  tears.) 
Alas,  poor  Nate,  thy  life  was  saved,  and  I 
Therefore  rejoice.     O  heart,  didst  thou  belie 
Me  when  I  chose  ?    Ah,  small  regret  I'd  feel 
If  Mortimer,  whose  message  doth  reveal 
A  sordid  mind,  should  ne'er  to  me  return. 
Poor  crippled  Nate,  who  dared  thy  love  to  spurn  ? 
Woe  me,  I've  cast  aside  that  which  I  prize 
Far  more  to-day  than  at  the  war-cloud's  rise. 
Alas,  weak  man,  the  "  wherefore"  and  the  "  why" 
Escape  thy  grasp.     Most  foolishly  we  sigh ; 
When  to  rejoice  we've  reason ;  and  we  laugh, 
When  we  should  weep,  and  not  joy's  nectar  quaff. 

(Enter  MARY  GREEN,  a  friend  and  neighbor.) 
MARY.      I  greet  thee,  Maud.     Hast  thou  not  heard  the 

news? 
MAUD.    Naught  have  I  heard.     My  ignorance  excuse. 

MARY.    Thy  suitors  both,  the  one  from  battlefield, 
The  other,  from  the  western  slopes,  which  yield 

220 


Strife  and  Peace 


Wealth  most  profuse,  returned  but  yesterday ; 
Both  rich  in  that  for  which  they  sped  away ; 
The  former  lost  an  arm,  and  gained  renown, 
The  latter  gathered  wealth,  but  dark's  his  frown, 
While  Nate  doth  smile.     Were  I  but  thou 
I'd  know  to  choose  the  right  one,  I  avow. 

MAUD.     Wert  thou  but  I  ?    Alas,  I'm  not  myself, 
Nor  am  I  placed  to  choose,  'twixt  worth  and  pelf. 
(Exit  Mary  in  haste,  upon  hearing  footsteps.) 

(Enter  Mortimer,  extending  his  hand  to  Maud,  who  hesi- 
tatingly returns  his  greetings.) 

MORTIMER.    At  last !     I've  all  which  gives  this  life  a  zest. 
One  yearning  yet  remains,  and  all  unrest 
Shall  speed  from  hence.     A  dukedom,  I  , 
With  half  my  wealth,  for  thee  would  gladly  buy. 

MAUD.     For  me,  why  me  ?    Such  ideas  I  spurn. 
Your  aims  are  naught  to  me,  not  my  concern. 

MORTIMER.    What,  ho!    How  changed!    Thy  jokes  are 

rather  grim, 

I'm  richer  than  thou  knowest.     Each  wish  and  whim 
I  shall  fulfil,  ere  thou  canst  speak  the  word. 
Be  thou  my  queen,  and  let  me  be  thy  lord. 

MAUD.     Smooth  are  thy  words,  yet  illy  do  compare 
With  them  thy  deeds.     I  pray,  my  feelings  spare. 

MORTIMER   (excited).      Deeds,   what   knowest  thou  of 

deeds?  What,  ho! 

Didst  thou,  O  fiend,  who  dwellest  far  below, 
Forstall  love's  joy,  ere  I  could  taste  its  bliss? 
To  drag  me  to  despair's  hopeless  abyss  ? 
Grim  specter,  hence.     Withdraw  thy  fangs,  remorse, 
Thy  poisoned  fangs!     Let  me  pursue  my  course. 
221 


Strife  and  Peace 


Lost,  lost,  all's  lost!     In  life's  long  game  succeeds 
None  who,  like  me,  but  selfish  promptings  heeds. 
Too  late  I  learn  that  he  who  gives  receives ; 
And  he  who  takes  but  obligations  leaves 
To  be  repaid  a  hundred-fold.     Regret 
And  woe's  the  fruit  which  crime  e'er  did  beget. 
(Looking  out  of  the  window,  he  sees  SIMMS,  the  miner, 
walking  in  the  distance,  and  mistakes  him  for  his 
victim) 

There,  there  again,  remorseless  shade  thou  art, 
If  thou  dost  hither  come,  I  must  depart. 
Off,  off,  away.     Mild  are,  O  hell,  thy  pangs, 
With  the  dismay  compared,  which  o'er  me  hangs. 
(He  rushes  out  like  a  madman  towards  the  cliffs.) 
(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  II 

(In  SIMM'S  cabin.    MARTIN  SIMMS.    Enter  NATE.) 

SIMMS.    This  hour  be  blessed,  and  blessed  be  the  light 
Which  shines  on  thee,  whose  countenance  so  bright 
Shows  not  the  grief  which  well  it  might  betray, 
In  smaller  minds,  who  ne'er  the  issues  weigh. 

NATE.     My  loss  is  great,  yet  far  outweighs  the  gain 
Which  we  achieved,  the  momentary  strain. 

SIMMS.     Child  of  my  heart,  thou  art  a  man  among 
The  bravest  men,  in  deeds,  and  not  by  tongue. 
But  show  thy  wounds.     Could  I  but  now  replace 
With  my  old  limb  the  arm  which  thee  did  grace ! 
Thy  arm  is  gone,  the  tool  which  but  obeys, 
Thy  guiding  mind  remains,  which  e'er  outweighs 
The  instrument,  a  soulless  thing  at  best, 
And  will  replace  its  loss  with  interest. 
222 


Strife  and  Peace 


NATE  (uncovering  the  stump  of  his  arm).     A  useless 

stump.     Yet  stumps  imply,  make  plain, 
That  naught  which  liveth  can  its  state  maintain. 
This  stunted  limb  proclaims  to  him  whose  mind 
Can  read  life's  runes,  and  look  before,  behind, 
With  seer's  eye,  that  landmarks  of  the  past 
Which  we  call  stumps,  are  constantly  amassed. 
The  task  fulfilled,  and  death  remodels  forms 
To  shapes  more  apt  to  meet  to-morrow's  storms. 

SIMMS.    Thy  fortitude  unequaled  clothes  thee  well. 

(He  notices  a  birth  mark  on  NATE'S  shoulder.) 
Ha,  what  a  mark  ?    Am  I  bound  by  a  spell  ? 
(He  quickly  denudes  his  own  shoulder,  and  points  out  a 
similar  mark.) 

NATE.    Another  mark  my  eyebrow  hides  secure. 
SIMMS.     And  so  doth  mine  —  a  wonder  to  be  sure  — 

NATE.    A  miracle  —  could  I  my  thoughts  define ! 
Hast  none  of  kin,  thou  dearest  friend  of  mine  ? 

SIMMS.     None  known  to  me.     I  had  a  wife  and  child, 
Who,  for  a  time,  my  lonely  life  beguiled. 
Alas,  they're  dead.     The  raging  gulf  devoured 
Both  and  myself  and  ship  which  bravely  towered 
For  quite  a  time  above  the  seething  sea. 
Though  I  was  saved,  life  has  no  charms  for  me. 

NATE  (excited).   And  I  was  saved,  locked  in  my  mother's 

arms, 

Who  dead,  I'm  told,  was  graced  with  rarest  charms. 
Her  dress  was  white.     Like  mine  her  eyes  and  hair. 

SIMMS.     Thou  art  my  boy,  my  long-bewaileth  heir. 
(They  sink  into  each  others  arms.) 

(Curtain  drops.) 
223 


Strife  and  Peace 


SCENE  III. 

(ENGLESBY 'S//YW/  room.    Mr.  and  MRS.  ENGLESBY  and 
Maud.) 

ENGLESBY.    He's  raving  mad.     O'er  cliff  and  crag  he 

flew; 

As  if  by  demons  chased,  as  one  who  slew 
A  fellow  creature  in  an  unjust  cause. 
His  burning  eyes  in  terror  seem  to  pause 
Whene'er  they  meet  a  partial  change  of  view. 
What  doth  he  fear?     Why  cannot  he  subdue 
This  insane  haste,  which  openly  bespeaks 
That  quietude  of  mind  he  vainly  seeks. 

MRS.  ENGLESBY.     The  hasty  glance  which  I  on  him  be- 
stowed 
All  that  and  more  but,  oh,  too  plainly  showed. 

MAUD.    He's  changed  far  more  than  e'er  I  did  expect. 

ENGLESBY.    Thank  God,  my  child,  he's  not  thy  love 

elect. 
(Exit  MR.  and  MRS.  ENGLESBY.) 

MAUD  (kneeling).    Ah,  thanks  to  thee,  God  of  the  uni- 
verse! 

I  still  am  free.     May  now  thy  hand  disperse 
The  leaden  cloud  which  did  my  mind  disturb ; 
Thine  be  all  praise,  thou  didst  my  folly  curb. 

(Enter  NATE.    MAUDE  rises.) 

NATE.    Ah,  prayest  thou  ?    Forgive  my  ill-timed  call. 
(He  wants  to  withdraw,  but  Maud  beckons  him  to  remain.) 

MAUD.     Ill-timed?      Such  words  should  ne'er  from  thy 
lips  fall. 

224 


Strife  and  Peace 


As  kind  as  brave,  thou  dost  not  e'en  resent 
Past  injuries  —  this  is  no  compliment. 

NATE  (dejected).    Naught  to  resent  have  I,  and  naught 

to  hope, 

Unless  kind  thoughts  should  swiftly  interlope 
Into  thy  heart,  which  ever  seemed  to  lean 
Away  from  me.     No  compliment,  I  ween  ? 

MAUD  (smiling  and  blushing).    No  compliment.     Yet 

leanings  ere  they're  fixed 
Are  movable,  a  task  with  sorrow  mixed. 

NATE  (On  his  knees,  holding  her  hand.  Maud  drops  her 
head  and  weeps).  Transfer  thy  love  to  me,  if  thou 
dost  find 

That  worthy  I  of  thee.     Leave  grief  behind. 
A  bud,  though  nipped,  from  early  frost  escaped, 
May  bring  forth  fruit  most  sweet  and  perfect  shaped. 
Give  me  thy  love :   and  thou  hast  given  me 
More  than  a  miser  in  his  dreams  could  see. 
Give  me  thy  love :   let  earthquakes  shake  this  crust, 
I'll  cling  to  thee,  and  love  thee,  since  I  must. 
Give  me  thy  love :   or  I  shall  starve,  not  die ; 
A  hopeless  life  doth  greater  woe  imply. 
Give  me  thy  love :   though  hurricanes  unfurled 
Should  blast  our  home,  I  still  would  own  the  world. 
Give  me  thy  love,  and  hardships  I'll  survive, 
Since  thee  I've  met,  in  light  alone  I'll  thrive. 
Give  me  thy  love :    and  stars  may  rise  or  fall, 
I'll  heed  it  not,  for  thou  shalt  be  my  all. 

(Maud  also  sinks  on  her  knees,  and  they  embrace.) 

(Curtain  jails.) 
225 


Strife  and  Peace 


SCENE  IV 

(ENGLESBY'S  back  room.      MR.  and  MRS.  ENGLESBY. 
Enter  SIMMS.) 

SIMMS.     A  cheerful  night.     Yet  cheerful  thoughts  arise 
Not  from  the  weather  which  we  praise,  despise, 
But  from  the  heart,  from  whence  emotions  spring, 
Here  giving  joy,  and  elsewhere  sickening. 

ENGLESBY.     Thou  speakest  true.     I  also  do  perceive 
No  loss  of  late  did  thee  of  joy  bereave. 

MRS.  ENGLESBY.     Confess,  O  friend,  and  reap  the  con- 
sequence 
'Twill  cheer  thee  more  and  free  us  from  suspense. 

ENGLESBY.     Disclose  thy  heart.     Truth  ever  speaks  my 

spouse ; 
My  ear  is  thine.     My  int'rest  didst  arouse. 

SIMMS.     Ah,  how  begin  ?    The  drama  which  deprived 
Me  of  all  joy  and  which  but  I  survived, 
Is  known  to  you.     Had  Nate  not  lost  his  arm 
Ne'er  had  I  seen  the  mark  which  me  did  charm 
And  both  of  us  as  kinsmen  doth  proclaim. 
My  long-lost  son  is  he.     He'll  grace  my  name. 
Pride  swells  my  aged  and  weary,  shrunken  heart, 
Which,  long  deserted,  'neath  fate's  blows  did  smart, 
For  such  a  son  as  he  more  than  fulfils 
Long-buried  hopes.     I  feel  that  all  my  ills 
Are  at  an  end.     Could  I  embrace  once  more 
My  heart's  delight,  my  wife,  whom  to  adore 
Was  joy  supreme,  I'd  die  in  rapture  drowned. 
(Wiping  a  tear  from  his  eye.) 
226 


Strife  and  Peace 


But  no!     O  God,  thy  wisdom  is  profound, 
The  more  thou  giv'st,  the  more  do  we  beseech ; 
The  stronger  we,  the  more  we  overreach 
Those  less  endowed  with  weapons  of  defense ; 
The  smallest  gifts  outweigh  in  consequence, 
If  wisely,  at  the  proper  time  bestowed, 
A  jeweled  crown,  which  often  proves  a  load. 

(Enter  NATE  and  MAUD  hand  in  hand,  unobserved.) 
ENGLESBY.     Thy  joy  is  mine ;   may  it  with  us  abide 

Until  life  ebbs  away.     I  share  thy  pride, 

And  am  rejoiced  that  thou  a  kindred  mind 

And  kindred  heart  didst  in  thy  offspring  find. 

Had  I  a  son  like  thine,  I'd  none  begrudge. 

NATE  (stepping  up  to  ENGLESBY,  holding  MAUD  by  the 
hand).  Make  me  thy  son.  Thou  art  a  lenient 
judge. 

MAUD.     O  parents  dear,  your  wilful  child  at  last 
On  trusty  ground  hath  now  her  anchor  cast. 

SIMMS.    A  daughter,  too,  and  oh,  much  like  my  wife! 
Enough  of  joy!  O  resurrected  life! 

ENGLESBY.     'Tis  a  surprise,  yet  not  quite  unforseen. 

MRS.  ENGLESBY.  And  well  approved  —  your  lot,  be  it 
serene. 

NATE.     O  blessed  day  of  joy  and  happiness! 
A  father's  love  I  gained,  a  bride's  caress; 
All  came  to  me,  unearned,  as  comes  the  dew 
From  heaven,  sent  to  nourish  and  renew 
The  vital  powers  of  the  drooping  blade, 
Which  languishes  without  kind  nature's  aid. 
The  arm  I  lost  —  a  parent  and  a  bride, 
The  one  restored,  the  other  brought,  beside 
227 


Strife  and  Peace 


The  aid  it  gave  to  end  this  fearful  war  — 
Was  overpaid,  as  offerings  seldom  are. 

ENGLESBY.     Sham  modesty  I  deprecate.     For  thou, 
My  dearest  son,  hast  earned  all  thou  hast  now. 

SIMMS.     In  humbleness,  far-reaching  works  begin ; 
And  modest  seeds  have  giant  trees  within, 
Which,  in  their  time,  if  guided  by  God's  hand, 
May  shelter  those  who  give  not,  but  demand. 
Unequal  are  the  tasks  which  to  fulfil 
We're  called  upon ;  the  one,  whose  work  and  skill 
Doth  count  for  ten,  enacts  but  his  own  share ; 
The  other  nine,  in  helplessness,  despair. 

ENGLESBY.     One  of  the  best  thou  art.      God^heretofore 
Outsingled  thee,  equipped  thee  with  a  store 
Of  virtues  which  from  him  alone  could  spring. 
Thou  didst  thy  part,  without  vain  questioning. 
In  this  short  life  each  mortal  must  install, 
Not  for  himself,  but  for  the  good  of  all, 
His  gifts  of  mind,  his  strength,  and  all  his  skill, 
His  task  outmapped,  with  credit  to  fulfil. 
(NATE  and  MAUD  kneel  down.) 
Dear  children,  both,  be  clear  or  dark  the  sky, 
Hope  be  your  guide,  and  cheer  be  ever  nigh. 
Let  rectitude  and  soberness  of  thought 
All  times  prevail,  and  when  life's  battle's  fought, 
Your  mental  eye,  calm  and  impassionate, 
May  back  and  forward  look,  and  then  await 
Eternity's  new  gifts,  adapted  for 
Each  single  case,  and  kept  for  all  in  store. 
May  He,  who  ne'er  neglects  His  own  to  guard, 
Your  love  sustain  and  threatening  ills  retard. 
(Curtain  drops.) 

THE   END. 

228 


THE  LAST  OF  THE   BAROTINS 
A  TRAGEDY  IN  Two  ACTS 

Time.     The  -fifteenth  century. 

Location.     A  mountainous  part  of  Bohemia. 

Dramatic  Personnel 
COUNT  BAROTIN,  of  Barotin's  castle. 
ELISA,  his  wife. 
JAROMIR,  his  son. 
BERTHA,  his  daughter. 
WALRAM,  a  serf  and  poacher. 
ANNA,  his  wife. 
ROLLO,  his  son. 
IRMA,  his  daughter. 
WIGRICH,  a  bandit  chief. 
BARTHOLO,  a  bandit. 
Serfs,  robbers,  Barotin's  attendants  and  squires. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

(Courtyard  of  BAROTIN'S  castle.    BAROTIN,  ELISA,  and  their  two 
small  children  playing  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda) 

BAROTIN.     Blessed  far  more  than  the  average  dweller  below, 
For  God  upon  me  did  fair  boons  in  his  kindness  bestow, 
Am  I,  who  would  fain  be  content  with  bounties  so  great, 
If  only  those  poachers  their  longing  for  mischief  would  sate, 
Would  sate  and  subdue,  and  henceforth  their  pilfering  cease, 
Which  angers  me  daily,  and  robs  me  of  comfort  and  peace. 

229 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


ELISA.     O  husband,  though  thine,  and  established  by  usage 

and  statute 

Is  the  game  of  the  forest,  forebear,  oh  forbear!  I  dispute 
The  wisdom  of  overstrict  measures  to  mitigate  here 
The  lawless  yet  truly  conceivable  outrage.     Severe 
And  trying  the  winter's  great  hardship,  and   spring  now   ap- 
proaching 
Finds  empty  the  larder,  excusing  some  cases  of  poaching. 

BAROTIN.  Surprised  am  I  truly,  and  pained  beyond  thought 
or  expression 

That  thou,  who  e'er  faithful,  shouldst  urge  me  to  such  a  conces- 
sion, 

Which  ignorance  would  but  construe,  not  as  bounty,  but  weak- 
ness: 

For,  alas,  man  must  choose  'twixt  authority  ever  and  meekness. 

Neither  law,  nor  usuage,  nor  pity,  the  throne  which  doth  tremble 

Long  can  uphold,  unless  its  stays  power  resemble. 

ELISA.    But,  husband,  though  right  undisputed,  thy  claims  all 

do  strengthen, 

Yet  have  I  forebodings  which  darkly  me  follow,  and  lengthen 
Their  notes  of  dire  warning  whenever  I  chance  to  perceive 
That  thou  again  chafing  —  it  saddens  me  sorely  —  I  grieve. 

(Enter  two  servants,  with  WALRAM,  the  serf,  bound  between  them.) 
FIRST  ATTENDANT.     We've  captured  this  knave  here,  still  reek- 
ing from  the  blood  of  a  doe. 

WALRAM  (to  BAROTIN).     Have  mercy,  oh,  mercy!    Starvation, 

but  part  of  our  woe, 

Has  brought  on  my  downfall.     My  wife,  yet,  bed-ridden  and  weak, 
The  prey  of  long  sickness,  from  want  to  redeem  I  did  seek. 

BAROTIN.     What,  mercy?   Thou  scoundrel,  thou  robber,  I'll 

teach  thee,  vile  thief! 

Mine  are  the  forests,  with  all  that  they  shelter.     Each  leaf 

230 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


That  is  growing  is  mine,  and  mine  all  the  game  that  abounds. 
Viler  art  thou,  and  more  stealthful  than  the  basest  of  hounds. 

WALRAM.     Believe  me,  your  honor.     The  doe  which  I  slew  by 

constraint 
Ne'er  suffered  such  want  as  did  we.     Oh,  hear  my  complaint. 

ELISA.     O  husband,  could  I  but  thy  wrath  in  his  favor  now 
warp! 

(Exit  ELISA.) 

BAROTIN.     Vain,  vain  all  entreaties.    A  punishment,  searcihng 

and  sharp, 

Shall  overtake  him.     Bring  forthwith  the  wildest  of  colts. 
Denude  him  and  mount  him.     Ah,  lightning,  though  fleet  are  thy 

bolts, 

He'll  emulate  thee,  while  bound  to  his  steed,  which  careers 
When  freed,  through  the  wilds  like  his  coveted  roebucks  and  deer. 

WALRAM  (kneeling).     Mercy,  have  mercy,  and  thine  are  the 

blessings  of  God. 

Condemn  not  thy  creature,  who  walks  but  a  serf  on  thy  sod, 
While  freedom  the  beasts  and  the  birds  of  thy  forests  invites 
To  sate  all  their  cravings,  which  bountiful  nature  excites. 
Forgive,  oh,  forgive,  for  my  fault,  whether  weakness  or  strength, 
Has  saved  my  young  babes  and  my  spouse  from  the  fate  which  at 

length 

Was  nearing  my  threshhold,  and  threatened  them  all  to  destroy. 
Forgive,  and  have  mercy,  and  thine  be  the  fullness  of  joy. 

BAROTIN.     Foul  vulture,  thy  clamor,  exceeded  by  naught  but 

thy  deeds, 

Is  vain,  and  thou'lt  reap  now  thy  self-sown  and  well-earned  pro- 
ceeds. 

WALRAM.     Oh,  close  not  thine  ear  to  my  misery,  which  doth 

outcry, 

O  God  of  creation,  to  Thee!  or  surely  I  die. 

231 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


BAROTIN.    As  warning  example  ,  which  others  will  stun  and 

dismay, 
I  bid  thee  go  hence.     Up,  up  on  thy  charger,  away. 

WALRAM  (while  being  undressed  and  lashed  to  the  steed).    A 

curse  upon  thee,  which  daily  shall  double  its  sting ; 
Thy  wife,  far  too  noble,  shall  soon  to  earth's  kind  bosom  cling; 
Thy  children  shall  fail  thee,  when  nothing  but  them   thou  dost 

crave ; 

Thy  life-thread  shall  shrivel ;    bereft  shalt  thou  enter  thy  grave, 
(The  steed  rushes  with  its  burden  toward  the  roughest  part  of  the 

forest.) 

(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  II. 

(In  a  bandits1  cave.    WALRAM,  bleeding  and   unconscious,  lying 

on  a  rough  bed,  surrounded  by  robbers.) 
WIGRICH.     Poor  devil!     I  wonder  which  lordling  this  sport 

hath  conceived ; 

These  nobles,  self-styled,  by  trifles  are  angered  and  grieved. 
Revengeful  and  touchy,  they  fashion  for  others  the  laws, 
Perfect  no  more  than  their  standards,  a  collection  of  flaws, 
Which  they  in  their  pride  ever  break.    They  teach  us  to  wield 
The  weapons  of  war,  the  use  of  the  sword  and  the  shield. 
Yet  traitors  are  we,  if  the  skill  we  thus  gained  we  employ, 
Not  for  their  sole  profit,  who  ruthless  pursue  and  destroy, 
But  for  ourselves,  our  kinsmen,  and  those  we  esteem ; 
That  all  men  have  rights,  is  a  doctrine  of  which  they  ne'er  dream. 

BARTHOLO.     Thy  aim  is  perfection.     Thy  bullet  sped  home  to 

reduce 
To  a  carcass  the  stallion,  so  proud  in  its  bearing,  and  spruce. 

WIGRICH.     The  rider's  grim  peril  induced  me  to  hasten  and  act, 
Whom  danger  from  gunshot  less  threatened  than  fall  and  impact. 

232 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


WALRAM.     What,  ho!    Am  I  living?    Ah  Anna,  my  dearest, 

am  I 
With  open  eyes  dreaming,  or  do  my  stunned  senses  all  lie  ? 

BARTHOLO.     Thou  livest.     Yet  stood  between  thee  and  thy  ce- 
lestial goal 

But  Wigrich's  small  pellet  of  lead ;  nothing  else,  by  my  soul. 
Aye,  small,  but  effective,  for  size  doesn't  count  here  on  earth, 
And  quality  wins,  while  abundance  doth  choke  in  its  dearth. 

WIGRICH.     Misfortune  binds  closer,  more  lasting,  one  heart  to 

another, 

Than  love  between  parents,  or  affection  'twixt  brother  and  broth- 
er. 

Misfortune,  the  cement,  which  ever  tenacious  adheres, 
Outlasts  golden  shackles,  and  bonds  in  emotion's  high  spheres. 
Worthy  art  thou,  by  fate  introduced  and  commended, 
To  join  our  circle,  since  elsewhere  your  calling  is  ended. 

WALRAM.     I'll  join  thee,  if  hither  my  loved  ones  thou  swiftly 

will  bring, 
And  true  thou  shalt  find  me,  till  death  in  my  grave  me  doth  fling. 

WIGRICH.     Your  assurance  I  doubt  not.     'Tis  natural  thou 

shouldst  be  true  — 
But  tell  me,  oh  stranger,  to  whom  is  your  hatred  now  due  ? 

WALRAM.  (shaking  his  fist).    Ah,  Barotin,  tyrant !    A  doe  in  his 

forest  I  slew; 
My  kindred  were  starving ;  their  wants  I  did  aim  to  subdue. 

BARTHOLO.     There's  game  in  abundance,  e'en  more  than  the 

count  can  consume. 

But  a  serf,  I  assure  thee,  doth  signify  little.     The  room 
Which  thou  hast  vacated  in  Barotin's  ill-loved  estate 
Will  harbor,  hereafter,  some  beast  of  the  wildwood  to  sate 
Its  cravings  molested  by  none ;  by  none  ever  chased 
As  ruthless  as  thou,  whom  death  hath  so  nearly  embraced. 

233 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


WALRAM.    Unquenchable  loathing,  oh,  hate  of  my  soul,  oh, 

reduce 

To  brimstone  his  castle.     His  heart,  oh,  with  fire  infuse. 
(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  III 

(In  the  robbers'  cave.) 

(Enter  bandits,  with  ANNA  on  a  hand-barrow,  and  her  two  children.) 
WALRAM  (stooping  over  his  wife).     Oh,  blessed  my  eyes.      My 

vengeful  and  petrified  breast 
For  once  is  relaxed,  for  love  has  been  e'er  thy  behest. 

(Kisses  her.) 

My  wife,  thou  art  gentle ;   thy  presence  doth  sooth  and  allay 
The  demons  which  fiercely  me  tortured,  whom  now  I  would  slay. 
For  thee  I'd  relinquish  all  thoughts  retributive  and  sore, 
And  overcome  bias  and  hardship.       All  this,  and  far  more. 

ANNA.    Have  thanks,  my  good  Walram.     Though  lowly,  we 

ever  agreed. 
Yet  am  I  a  burden,  unhelpful,  and  ever  in  need. 

WALRAM.     A  stay,  not  a  burden.     O  dearest,  thy  fortitude  ever 
Was  ample  for  two,  and  I  found  it  a  trustworthy  lever 
To  raise  and  dislodge  the  darkest  of  threatening  evils 
Which  openly  gnawed,  or  in  stealth,  like  the  core-killing  weevils. 

ANNA.    Alas,  my  dear  Walram,  I'd  gladly  with  thee  yet  abide, 
But  I  feel  I  am  dying,  like  the  foam  in  the  wake  of  the  tide. 

BARTHOLO  (aside  to  WALRAM).     I  fear   her  forebodings  are 

founded.     She  had  a  relapse 
When  your  plight  was  reported,  a  cause  quite  sufficient,  perhaps. 

WALRAM  (in  agony  and  surprise).     Oh  no,  my  own  Anna,   not, 

dying!     O  God,  help  thou  me! 
O  dearest,  thou'lt  rally,  and  ever  as  heretofore  be 

234 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


My  beacon  in  darkness,  and  when  the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun 
Me  sear  and  delude,   thou  wilt,  as  thou  often  hast  done, 
Ennoble  thy  station,  as  guardian  angel  serene ; 
Our  children  confiding  upon  thee  in  safety  shall  lean. 

ANNA.     Thy  words  kindest  Walram,  would  cheer  me,  if  cheer 

could  find  room 
In  a  heart  which  is  smothered,  foreseeing  its  loved  one's  sad 

gloom. 

Alas,  this  life's  burdens,  compared  with  the  light  of  beyond, 
Were  scarcely  inviting,  without  the  soul-warming  love-bond. 
Yet  since  I  enjoyed  my  full  measure  of  earth  born  indulgence, 
Why  should  I  now  falter  while  nearing  God's  realm  of  efful- 
gence ? 

Couldst  thou  and  our  babes  in  this  journey  me  follow,  attend, 
How  lightly  I'd  sever  all  ties,  which  still  I  would  mend. 

WALRAM  (laying  both  babes  against  her  breast.  She  fondles 
them).  O  God,  had  I  known  that  so  soon  we  must  part 
in  death's  shade, 

More  kind  and  more  patient  I'd  been,  and  more  slow  to  evade 
The  small  daily  tokens  of  service,  which  open  proclaim 
The  love  and  affection  which  ever  my  heart  did  inflame. 

ANNA,     (in  a  low,  weak  voice).     Oh,  cease,  my  kind  husband. 

Oh,  torture  no  longer  thy  mind ; 

Thou  wert  ever  faithful  and  gen'rous,  and  kinder  than  kind. 
Farewell,  my  sweet  babes,  may  God  be  your  stay  and  your  guide ; 
Farewell,  thou  best  Walram,  my  husband,  my  lover,  my  pride. 

(She  dies.) 

WALRAM.  Dead,  dead!  Oh,  delusion,  for  once  I  would  wel- 
come thy  shroud ! 

Bring  forth  thy  contrivance.     Proclaim,  ah,  proclaim  it  aloud, 
That  yet  she  is  living,  she  of  myself  the  best  part. 
Delude  me  to  gain  but  a  moment ;    ply  speedy  thy  art, 

235 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


Which,  though  it  would  vainly  endeavor  a  fact  to  undo, 

Would  quench  for  a  moment   the   woe  which  is  piercing  me 

through. 
WIGRICH.    Alas,  my  poor  fellow!     Death's  whims  are  the 

whims  of  the  storm, 

Which  here  smites  a  giant,  and  elsewhere  doth  skip  a  weak  form. 
His  whims  are  the  whims  which  distinguish  the  lightning's  fell 

stroke, 

Here  trifling  and  toying,  while  yonder  it  splinters  an  oak. 
WALRAM  (raising  his  right  hand  on  high).      Or  the  whims  of 

that  devil  who  murdered  my  consort  so  kind, 
While  petting  his  hounds,  who  their  teeth  upon  human  bones 

grind. 

My  better  self  left  me,  and  what  there  of  me  doth  remain, 
In  the  service  of  vengeance  shall  prosper,  or  die  in  disdain. 
Woe,  woe,  and  despair!   be,  Barotin,  ever  thy  share. 
The  serpent  of  conscience  shall  sting  thee,  and  find  a  fit  lair 
In  thy  blackest  of  hearts,  and  its  coils  shall  its  dwelling  embrace 
With  the  force  of  a  mountain ;   its  pressure  shall  blanch  thy  bold 

face. 

Destruction,  thy  demon,  whom  thou  dost  so  often  employ, 
Shall  wait  upon  thee,  thy  joys  to  debase  and  alloy. 
Thy  whole  race  shall  perish,  like  leaves  by  a  hurricane  blasted ; 
Thy  life-ship  shall  founder,  and  be  in  its  prime  all  unmasted. 
Thy  first-born  shall  vanish,  returning  to  thee  as  a  scourge, 
And  thou  shalt  be  swallowed  in  thy  self-created  dread  surge. 

(Curtain  drops) 

SCENE  IV. 

(Main  hall  of  BAROTIN  castle.) 
ELISA  (exhausted  and  weeping,  drops  on  a  chair).      O  Jaromir, 

darling,  thou  canst  not  be  lost  yet,  Oh,  never. 
I've  vainly  been  searching,  but  find  not  my  fondling  so  clever. 

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The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


(Enter  BAROTIN,  also  exhausted?) 
BAROTIN.    Alas,  what  misfortune!    The  child  must  be  stolen 

or  drowned. 

My  people  for  days  now  are  seeking,  but  never  have  found 
The  slightest  of  traces.     The  river  we  also  have  dragged, 
But  useless  all  labor.     I'm  weary,  and  tired,  and  fagged. 
(Sits  down  aud  covers  his  face  with  his  hands.) 

ELISA.     Thou  offspring  of  Heaven,  O  Hope!  forsake  thou  me  not. 
Benumbed  are  my  feelings,  by  sorrow  and  weeping  begot. 

BAROTIN.    Despair  not,  Elisa,  I'll  rest  not  until  he  is  found; 
Each  nook  in  the  realm  I'll  examine,  all  brooklets  I'll  sound. 
One  seeking  for  pleasure,  doth  shun  in  his  search  the  extreme, 
Avoiding  abysses,  and  falters  where  highest  peaks  gleam. 
But  he  who  has  motives,  whose  aim  is  the  truth  to  reveal, 
Avoids  the  broad  highway,  which  only  to  ease  doth  appeal. 

ELISA.    The  curse  of  poor  Walram,  whom  thou  didst  so  ruth- 
lessly damn, 
Is  haunting  me  ever  and  poisons  my  heart  like  a  dram. 

BAROTIN.    My  thoughts  have  found  also  the  foolish  and  treach- 
erous dolt. 
But  sure  he  is  harmless,  received,  as  he  has,  his  last  jolt. 

ELISA.     What  sayeth  his  consort  ?  Is  she  yet  within  her  abode  ? 
O  husband,  she's  helpless.     Pray  ease  thou  her  direful  load. 

BAROTIN.     A  neighbor  informed  me  that  she  for  a  brother  hath 

sent, 
Who  dwelleth  remotely,  with  whom  to  remain's  her  intent. 

ELISA.     Alas,  I  am  grieved.     I  hoped  in  her  sorrow  to  share, 
Her  woe  to  allay  by  adding  to  hers  my  own  care. 
Heartache  and  grief  all  barriers  break  in  an  hour, 
Which  pride  hath  upbuilded,  revealing  the  weakness  of  power. 
(Exit  ELISA.) 
23? 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


BAROTIN.     The  weakness  of  power  —  prophetic  her  words  are, 

and  true. 

Walram,  ah,  Walram,  my  powers,  I'll  pledge  them  to  you 
If  thou  wilt  now  cancel  thy  involuntary  sojourn, 
If  thou  from  the  land  of  the  shadows  wilt  forthwith  return, 
My  weakness  to  strengthen,  to  teach  me  what  fain  I  would  learn. 
O  Jaromir,  darling!     Did  truly  his  curses  I  earn? 
The  boulder  I  started  a-rolling  has  crushed  in  its  run 
My  ill-guided  serf,  and  my  innocent,  ill-starred  son. 
Its  track  of  destruction,  which  threatens  my  joys  all  to  sear, 
Is  hitherward  leading,  encumb'ring  my  mind  with  grave  fear. 
An  evil  to  smother,  we  give  to  the  furies  full  sway, 
Who  turn,  when  unfettered,  their  own  liberator  to  slay. 

(Curtain  drops.) 


ACT   II 

SCENE  I 
(Time,  eighteen  years  after  first  act.) 

WALRAM  (alone  in  the  bandits'  cave).    At  last  the  time's  coming 

to  settle  a  long-pending  doom. 

I,  who  have  the  key  to  the  secret,  who  tended  the  loom 
Which  Barotin's  fate  has  been  weaving,  impartial  I'll  stand. 
Hereafter,  unbidden,  I'll  raise  neither  weapon  nor  hand. 
If  my  inclinations  were  such,  I  could  now  attack 
The  ruin  impending,  or  smite  him  within  his  own  track. 
The  spirits  of  vengeance  not  vainly  were  challenged  by  him ; 
Nor  will  I  appease  them,  nor  are  they  e'er  swayed  by  a  whim. 
His  wife  and  my  Anna,  both  innocent,  kindly,  and  true, 
Have  fallen  as  victims.     Let  him  his  declining  days  rue. 
His  son,  now  a  bandit,  our  chieftain  since  Wigrich's  demise, 
Shall  choose  between  Bertha,  and  her  whom  as  daughter  I  prize. 

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The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


(Noise  without.    Enter  JAROMIR  and  BARTHOLO.) 
BARTHOLO.    A  unique  adventure,  O  Walram,  hast  surely  thou 

missed : 

Disguised  as  two  beggars,  compassion  we  tried  to  enlist 
At  Barotin's  castle.     The  count,  who  looked  tired  and  aged, 
Paid  us  no  attention,  but  Bertha  all  ailings  assuaged. 
(Exit  BARTHOLO.) 

JAROMIR.     Truthful,  Bartholo  correctly  described  the  affair. 
The  count,  ever  hated  sincerely  by  us,  in  his  lair 
I  longed  to  encounter,  since  never  we  met  heretofore. 
Forbidding  in  aspect,  his  features,  which  proudly  he  bore, 
My  sympathy  challenged,  the  wherefore  still  to  me  obscure. 
His  daughter's  a  maiden  of  charms,  which  might  princes  allure. 

WALRAM.     And,  bandits,  I  dare  to  maintain.  But  Jaromir,  boy, 
Thy  wits  I  pray  quicken,  let  not  what  I  say  thee  annoy. 
A  foundling,  whom  once  I  adopted,  art  Jaromir,  thou. 
No  kinship  or  tie  of  the  blood  did  e'er,  I  avow, 
Us  link  to  each  other;  two  children  have  I  and  no  more. 
Still  art  thou  a  kin  of  my  spirit,  which  I  not  deplore. 

JAROMIR.     Pained  much  and  surprised,  doth  find  your  dis- 
closure me  now. 

Who  am  I?    Whence  from  did  I  happen?     Of  what  stem  a 
bough  ? 

WALRAM.     "Who  am  I?"    A  question  by  me  oft  inquiringly 

asked ! 

A  bandit,  I  answer.     But  truth  e'er  by  seeming  is  masked. 
Are  not  all  men  bandits  ?    Why  call  not  thyself  then  a  man  ? 
E'er  banded  together,  the  mighty  their  robberies  plan. 
The  priesthood,  less  daring,  but  strongly  towards  power  inclined 
In  bands  doth  assemble,  the  sheep  to  the  shepherds  to  bind. 
Some  authors  are  bandits,  who  evermore  pilfer  and  steal; 
While  others,  perfecting,  new  beauties  of  structure  reveal. 

239 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


The  beggar's  a  bandit,  for  all  that  he  has,  is  acquired. 
By  stolen  wealth  aided,  great  things  have  been  done  and  admired. 
Thy  next  puzzling  query,  "  whence  from"  have  quite  often  I  met ; 
Yet  vainly  I've  pondered  and  struggled  in  reason's  deep  net. 
From  the  earth  all  doth  issue,  which  to  earth  in  its  course  can 

return. 
But  the  soul  which  enlivens,  which  judges,  doth  earthly  rules 

spurn. 
"  Whence  from"  is  the  query  which  greatest  minds  stuns  in  its 

weight. 

And  "whither"  the  echo  which  doctrines  and  doubtings  create. 
Yet,  since  thou  art  eager  to  learn  more  than  I  can  disclose, 
I'll  answer  at  random,  a  stray  shot  oft  near  the  mark  goes : 
Thou'rt  sent  on  thy  journey  by  God,  who  again  thee  will  claim ; 
While  matter  claims  matter;  each  going  from  whence  it  first  came. 
And  thirdly,  thou  seekest  the  stem  to  discover,  whose  bough 
Thy  green  youth  resembles.     Most  gladly  I'd  answer,  but  how  ? 
Like  mine,  thy  ancestors  from  Adam  are  said  to  descend, 
And  your  and  my  blood  with  Noah's,  they  tell  us,  did  blend. 

JAROMIR.     Lame  are  thy  instructions,  applying  to  all  men  who 

live, 
Oh,  mock  not  my  yearning.     Give  me  information,  pray  give! 

WALRAM.     Said  I  not,  a  foundling  ?    And  foundlings  I  feel  we 

are  all. 

I  knew  once  my  parents,  at  least,  that  is  what  they  did  call 
Themselves,  me  embracing.    The  chances  are,  they  the  truth  told. 
But  proof  quite  convincing,  I  never,  not  once,  did  behold. 
Are  we  not  all  foundlings  ?     More  helpless  than  kittens  quite  blind, 
At  the  start  of  life's  journey,  our  nurses  us  ever  do  find. 
The  ties  in  blood  founded,  dull  creatures  do  ever  hold  dear, 
But  intellect's,  soaring,  seek  kindred  within  their  high  sphere. 
'Tis  all  I  can  tell  thee.     I  found  thee  a  child  in  yon  hills. 
Why  seek  for  the  hidden,  while  sunshine  thy  present  state  fills  ? 

240 


The  Last  of  ike  Barotins 


Why  cast  forth  thy  lantern,  encumb'ring  thy  haste  towards  the 

light, 
When  doubtful  of  finding  aught  else  but  a  still  darker  night  ? 

JAROMIR.    Philosopher's  wisdom  may  satisfy  sages,  whose  heart 
Has  conquered  all  passions;  but  mine  did  no  conquest  yet  start. 

WALRAM.      Aye,  passions  and  heart?      Well  might  I  have 

known  and  divined 

That  thou,  like  all  others,  'neath  cupid's  restrictions  hast  pined. 
The  heart  is  the  main-spring  which  man  ever  onward  propels ; 
The  heart  is  as  deep  as  the  ocean,  which  billows  and  swells 
In  secrets  unfathomed,  surprising  not  seldom  itself; 
The  heart  is  the  playground,  preferred  by  goblin  and  elf. 
The  heart,  uncorrupted,  will  gropingly  find  the  best  way, 
While  the  mind,  preconceited  by  eager  ambition,  may  stray. 
The  heart  is  a  war-field,  where  passions  in  combat  decide 
Which  shall  be  the  chief  of  the  moment,  supreme  in  his  pride ; 
Where  hate  and  where  envy  with  rivals  more  gentle  contend ; 
Where  virtue  its  champions  'gainst  darker  intruders  doth  send. 
The  heart  is  the  touchstone  to  which  in  the  end  we  appeal 
When  mind  is  despairing,  unable  the  truth  to  reveal. 

JAROMIR.   Thy  words  are  well  chosen,  but  words,  like  the  foam 

of  the  sea, 

No  vessel  can  carry,  nor  are  they  of  value  to  me. 
Words  are  like  a  chaff-heap,  with   which  the  wind  gambols  and 

plays, 

And  deeds  like  the  kernel,  which,  by  its  weight,  value  betrays. 
Chaff  ever  is  welcome  if  coupled  with  grain  it  is  found ; 
Give  deeds  me  alone,  or  give  me  the  proper  compound. 

WALRAM.    The  proper  compound  for  the  chilled  is  a  well- 
heated  punch ; 
For  the  starving,  a  luncheon,  or  something  co-equal  to  munch ; 

241 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


For  the  poor,  a  purse  swelling ;  for  the  warrior,  dissention  and 
strife ; 

For  thee,  ah,  my  lad,  I  imagine  it's  naught  but  a  wife. 

And  since  thou  dost  hanker  for  a  proper  and  wholesome  com- 
pound, 

How  doth  my  child  please  thee  ?  She's  handsome  and  hearty 
and  sound. 

But  shouldst  thou  have  chosen,  before  this,  some  other  trim  maid, 

My  means  shall  attend  thee,  nor  shalt  thou  despair  of  my  aid. 

JAROMIR.     What,  Irma?    My  sister?    But  no,  she  is  not  of 

my  kin. 

But  dear  and  beloved  as  were  she  my  sister  and  twin. 
Habit,  ah,  habit.     In  leisure  thy  fabrics  are  wrought, 
Slowly  proceeding,  thou  weavest  with  zeal  and  forethought, 
A  home  for  the  future,  enslaving  the  soil  of  thy  growth 
Which,  by  thee  corrupted,  thy  presence  to  curtail  is  loth. 
Thou  flatter'st  thy  victim,  who  soothes  by  thy  aid  his  desire, 
Who  swallows  thy  potions,  although  they're  consuming  like  fire. 
'Tis  a  habit  which  taught  me  to  look  upon  Irma  with  eyes 
Which  are  but  a  brother's ;  and  use,  innovation  denies. 
Alas,  my  thoughts  ramble  far  over  yon  hills,  and  are  sad, 
'Tis  Barotin's  daughter.     I  love  her!  I'm  dizzy!  I'm  mad! 

WALRAM.     Mad,  mad,  who  is  mad  ?    There  are  those  who  as 

madness  define 

Each  venture  of  daring,  accomplished  not  by  the  supine, 
But  by  the  exertions  of  those  who  all  doubtings  adjourned, 
And,  crowned  by  achievement,  their  madness  to  wisdom  is  turned. 
There  is  madness  e'er  rampant,  which  wins  not  through  merit  or 

worth 

But,  pampered  by  fortune,  it  gains  all  it  claims  here  on  earth. 
Madness  and  wisdom  as,  seen  by  the  world,  are  the  same, 
But  popular  favor  and  circumstance  change  e'er  the  name. 

242 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


Ne'er  call  the  day  wasted,  ere  the  shade  of  the  night  doth  ad- 
vance, 

Nor  revel  in  triumph,  while  still  old  Sol's  charger  doth  prance. 
Though  in  the  dim  light,  which  man  in  his  judgement  doth  guide, 
Thou  art  far  beneath  thy  cherished,  but  vainly  sought  bride. 
Yet,  were  each  one  stationed  as  justice  and  right  doth  dictate, 
The  world,  now  a  madhouse,  were  altered,  but  clamor  and  hate 
Would  rage  even  fiercer,  for  worthy  and  generous  souls 
Will  bear  much  injustice,  while  egotists  passion  controls. 
Rank  and  high  station,  like  dress,  may  embellish  or  hide 
The  good  or  the  evil,  for  seeming  doth  ever  misguide. 

JAROMIR.     Canst  thou,  then,  perceive  a  chance  of  success  in 

my  case? 
Alas,  if  thou'rt  hopeful,  I'm  eager  thy  views  to  embrace. 

WALRAM.     'Tis  easily  done.      When  Barotin  hunts  with  his 

child, 

I'll  fall  upon  them,  in  a  part  of  the  forest  most  wild, 
With  half  of  thy  men,  and  thou  to  the  rescue  must  fly 
In  garb  of  a  knight,  thus  gaining  by  well-devised  lie 
All  that  which  truth  vainly  would  strive  for  or  seek  to  obtain ; 
For  seeming  doth  conquer  where  truth  ne'er  a  foothold  could  gain. 
The  life  man  is  leading  is  masked  by  the  shallowest  art, 
Deceiving  each  other,  each  hoping  his  fellow  to  thwart. 
Unconscious  that  seeming  confronts  us  at  every  hour, 
We  hope,  undetected,  to  rise  in  esteem  and  in  power. 

(Curtain  jails.  ) 

SCENE  II 

(BAROTIN  and  BERTHA,  hunting  in  the  forest  on  horseback.) 
BAROTIN.     My  squires  have  vanished ;    the  baying  of  hounds 

doth  betray 

That  we  in  the  heat  of  the  chase  have  strayed  far  away 

243 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


From  the  track  of  the  deer.     Yet  did  I  a  rustling  perceive, 
Alluring  us  hither,  but  vainly  we  strayed,  I  believe. 

BERTHA.      I  scarcely  regret  it,   if  slaughter  to  witness  I'm 

spared ; 
The  quiet  of  nature  is  heaven,  with  killing  compared! 

BAROTIN.    Thou  art  like  thy  mother,  and  am  I  right  glad  that 

thou  art ; 

But  killing  is  needful,  of  ev'ry  man's  duty  a  part. 
The  minnow  is  relished  by  the  greedy  and  sharp-toothed  pike ; 
The  dove  is  the  prey  that  the  falcon  unerring  doth  strike ; 
And  the  eagle  swoops  down,  destroying  the  latter  by  force, 
Proclaiming  his  power  in  deeds  which  we  fully  endorse. 
And  mankind  is  ruled  by  the  fearless,  whose  ev'ryday  sport 
Is  killing  of  those  who  refuse  their  decrees  to  support. 
"Kill  or  be  killed?"  is  the  question  confronting  each  being; 
Destruction  all  threatens,  from  which  all  that  liveth  is  fleeing. 
The  beast's  faultless  instinct  doth  teach  it  to  strike  a  fell  blow, 
If  armed  for  the  combat ;  if  not  in  swift  flight  to  forego 
The  fate  of  the  weaker,  who  elsewhere  the  stronger  may  prove, 
Thus  giving  man  lessons,  which  to  follow,  it  doth  him  behoove. 

(WALRAM,  disguised,  springs  from  behind  a  huge  boulder  with  a 
weighted  net,  which  he  throws  over  BAROTIN,  pulling  him  to  the 
ground,  and  holding  him  down  with  his  foot.  Other  robbers 
surround  BERTHA  and  the  horses) 

WALRAM.    Thou  high  priest  of  killing,  thy  sermon  hath  taught 

me  thy  creed ; 

Presumption  thy  mainstay,  shall  totter,  I'll  warrant,  in  speed. 
Thy  doctrine  of  slaughter  which  thou  did'st  to  others  apply 
Shall  prove  thy  undoing.     The  fates,  shall  each  other  out-vie 
Thy  footsteps  to  follow,  e'er  turning  thy  spleen-poisoned  dart 
From  the  heart  of  thy  victim  to  thee,  who  so  modest  now  art. 

244 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


BERTHA.     Help!   Help!    Oh,  have  mercy!   My  father  I  pray 

you  to  spare. 
A  ransom  most  princely  I  promise.     Oh,  spare  him,  have  care. 

(  JAROMIR  in  guise  of  a  knight  comes  riding  through  the  woods,  fol- 
lowed by  a  dozen  of  heavily  armed  riders.  They  attack  the  ban- 
dits, who  flee,  after  a  short  but  fierce  fight.) 

JAROMIR  (after  helping  BAROTIN  on  his  horse).     O  Chance! 

Thy  kind  service,  to  thanks  everlasting  me  binds, 
For  guiding  me  hither.     Thy  cunning  the  means  ever  finds 
To  vanquish  the  likely,  the  probable,  which  in  this  case 
With  hardships  thee  threatened,  had  I  not  arrived  here  apace. 

BAROTIN.    Be  it  chance  or  a  wonder  created  us  both  to  defend, 
My  thanks  shall  attend  thee,  and  never  their  potency  spend. 

JAROMIR.       Chance  overthrows  reason,  if  such  with  its  whims 

doth  agree. 

Its  fickle  impulses  none  ever  could  trace  or  foresee. 
Chance  often  accomplished  in  moments  a  deed  to  surprise 
The  centuries  toiling  unfruitful,  with  wide-open  eyes. 
And  chance  oft  destroyed  in  a  moment  the  harvest  and  fruit 
Which  busy  hands  gathered  in  years  of  content  or  dispute. 

BERTHA.      The  virtue  of  chance  which  brought  us  your  timely 

relief, 

Thou  didst  vindicate  in  a  manner  conclusive  and  brief. 
Its  less-pleasing  features,  to  Heaven,  I  pray,  may  remain 
Hidden  forever.     Let  thanks  be  our  heartfelt  refrain. 

BAROTIN.     These  bandits  shall  suffer.     I'll  follow  them  up  to 

their  den, 

Which  far  o'er  the  mountains,  I  doubt  not,  I'll  find  with  my  men. 
I'll  chase  the  vile  skulkers  who  dare  in  my  realm  me  to  brave, 
Until  they  are  routed,  unable  their  bare  life  to  save. 

245 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


JAROMIR.     By  silence  I'd  teach  them  that  to  the  weak  ne'er  the 

strong  bows, 

Who  the  shafts  of  ill-humor,  unnoticed,  to  pass  by  allows, 
When  envy  and  hatred  the  mean-hearted  rabble  enrage, 
Whose  impotence  crawling,  would  fain  in  their  own  dingy  cage 
Of  spirit-endeavor,  entomb  the  high-soaring,  whose  heart, 
Disowning  the  paltry,  their  richness  to  others  impart. 
I'd  pass  them  unnoticed,  and  leave  to  the  fate  of  the  weak, 
These  sneaking  marauders  who  thus  for  a  livelihood  seek. 
For,  who  in  the  mire  dispensers  of  God-given  treats 
Would  gladly  engulf  is  worse  than  these  robbers  and  cheats. 

BERTHA.     Thou  art  a  defender,  first  saving  us  in  our  plight, 
Thy  noble  soul  turneth  to  set  these  poor  outlaws  aright, 
Who,  though  they  are  guilty,  more  courage  and  manhood  display 
Than  a  babbling  cit,  whose  tongue  is  his  organ  of  sway. 

BAROTIN.    Thy  aid  do  I  value,  nor  lightly  thy  speech  I  despise ; 
But  authority's  claim,  private  inclinations  denies, 
Which  would  but  encounter  the  sterner,  yet  needful  decrees 
By  wisdom  and  power  enacted,  as  mankind  it  sees. 

JAROMIR.    Ah,  power  is  potent,  and  fashions  its  laws  in  behalf 
Of  its  own  desire,  which  ne'er  over  modest,  doth  laugh 
At  the  rights  of  the  weaker,  who  nature's  laws  rather  would  choose 
Than  laws  of  man's  making,  which  justice  not  seldom  abuse ; 
And  choice  is  but  given  to  few,  while  the  many  despair, 
Some  hopeless  submitting,  some  taking  by  force  their  own  share. 
But  why  am  I  preaching,  I,  who  am  inclined  e'er  to  sate 
By  violence  aided,  all  that  which  my  yearnings  dictate  ? 
The  error  each  nurses,  is  in  his  own  conscience  to  place 
An  idol  for  worship  called  self,  of  small  virtue  or  grace. 

BERTHA.     Errors  detected  cease  instantly  errors  to  be, 
If  we,  the  deluded,  refuse  not  the  blemish  to  see. 
Correct  diagnosis,  first  of  all  else  doth  insure 
A  check  of  the  evil,  if  not  a  reform  or  a  cure. 

246 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


BAROTIN.      Wend,  stranger,  thy  way,  and  follow  me  to  my 

abode, 
Where  we  may  discuss  more  fully  this  late  episode. 

BERTHA.     My  father's  request,  I  pray  thee  to  heed  and  comply, 
For  just  debts  to  cancel,  none  e'er  should  forget  or  deny. 

JAROMIR.     My  spirit  shall  follow,  its  rambles  not  bound  by 

confines, 

But  the  shell  where  it  dwelleth,  more  cumbrous,  reluctant,  de- 
clines. 

For  unlike  the  former,  whose  movements  outspeed  the  sun's  rays, 
The  latter  appointments  must  keep  on  its  slow-winding  ways. 
Yet  shall  I,  when  duties,  time  hallowed,  are  paid  and  discharged, 
Seek  new  ones  near  beauty  and  kindness,  with  vision  enlarged. 
(They  salute  and  part  in  different  directions.) 
(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  III 

(In  the  park  of  Barotin  Castle.  In  the  background  is  seen  a  crypt, 
with  an  old  weatherbeaten  brick  garden-house  over  the 
entrance  of  the  crypt. 

JAROMIR  (standing).      BERTHA  (seated  on  a  bench  under  some 
shade  trees) 

JAROMIR.     Kind  maid,  I  behold  thee,  and  joyful  my  heart  doth 

vibrate. 

My  eyes  by  dull  abstinence  famished,  their  yearnings  would  sate. 
My  thoughts  since  we  parted,  evading  mind's  guiding  control, 
Have  been  in  attendance  on  thee,  while  I,  like  a  mole, 
'Gainst  distance  have  struggled,  but  slowly  reducing  the  space 
Which  kept  me  from  viewing  thy  loveliness  and  thy  mind's  grace. 

BERTHA.     My  parent's  kind  welcome,  joined  by  my  most  grate- 
ful regard, 

Is  thine,  and  the  doors  of  the  castle  thou'lt  find  e'er  unbarred. 

24? 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


JAROMIR.     O  Bertha,  thou  dearest  of  all  which  the  sun  doth 

behold, 

Forgive  my  presumption,  and  pardon  intrusions  so  bold. 
The  world  is  a  desert,  where  joys  are  but  scanty  and  rare ; 
Where,  for  each  oasis,  there's  ever  an  ocean  of  care ; 
Where  promise  confounds  us,  by  giving  us  rapture  to-day 
O'er  hopes  which  the  future  is  loth,  or  unable,  to  pay. 
Since  my  eyes  encountered  the  orbs  which  thy  countenance 

grace, 

I've  divined  all  the  transports,  for  which  only  heaven's  the  place. 
My  life  lacks  the  keystone,  to  make  it  complete  in  its  way ; 
My  heart,  by  doubt  tortured,  is  faint,  and  a  slave  to  dismay. 
To  thee  my  soul  turneth,  perceiving  the  richness  in  all 
Which  sorely  I'm  wanting,  which  fain  I  my  treasures  would  call. 
Thou  art  my  hope's  beacon,  to  guide  me  from  threat'ning  abyss; 
Thy  voice  is  the  echo  of  angels,  thy  presence  is  bliss. 
To  see  thee  is  living,  to  miss  thee  is  anguish  supreme, 
To  love  and  possess  thee,  the  climax  of  heaven  doth  seem. 

BERTHA.     Oh  speak  thou  not  thus,  frail  am  I,  and  prone  to 

believe 
Impossible  tidings,  which  me  of  all  peace  may  bereave. 

JAROMIR.    Alas,  could  devotion,  could  penance  my  unworthy 

past 

Efface,  ere  its  knowledge  o'erwhelms  thee  with  horrors  aghast ; 
Yet  truth  often  shaded,  when  minor  affairs  are  at  stake 
Should  shine  in  full  splendor  when  crises  the  heart  overtake. 
Deceive  thee,  I  cannot,  deception  its  countenance  hides 
Where  virtue's  pure  blossom  with  modesty  dwells  and  abides. 
Forgive  me  truth's  torture ;    plain  spoken,  and  seemingly  rude, 
Yet  pain  thus  engendered  doth  agents  of  healing  include. 
The  chief  of  the  bandits,  whose  force  in  the  forest  misled 
Thyself  and  thy  parent  am  I.     O  God,  were  I  dead!   (Covers  his 

face  with  his  hands.} 

248 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


BERTHA.      I'm  stunned  o'er  thy  ravings,  yet  surely  thou'rt 

noble  and  good. 
Oh,  shield  us,  ye  fates,  beloved,  feared  sisterhood! 

(Enter  BAROTIN  with  armed  men.) 
FIRST  ATTENDANT.    There,  count,  stands  the  robber,  whose 

brazen  front  to  me  is  known, 

Who  knighthood  is  shamming,  shall  forthwith  be  quite  over- 
thrown. 

BAROTIN.    Thou  hear'st  thy  accuser;  speak,  speak,  and  the 

truth  be  thy  guide, 
Nor  try  to  dissemble,  for  justice  will  swiftly  decide. 

(BERTHA  runs  to  the  garden-house;  and  JAROMIR  follows  her,  bolting 
the  door  on  the  inside.  The  ghost  of  ELISA,  standing  in  the  vault 
door,  beckons  them,  and  they  follow  her  into  the  vault,  also  bolting 
the  door.  BAROTIN'S  men  try  to  break  open  the  garden-house 
door,  and  failing  in  this,  they  mount  to  its  roof  with  ladders,  try- 
ing to  break  in.  Suddenly  the  whole  structure  collapses  with  a 
crash.) 

(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  IV 

(In  BAROTIN'S  private  room.    Noises  heard  from  without,  caused 

by  the  removal  of  the  garden-house  ruins.) 
BAROTIN  (in  a  large  armchair,  moaning).     O  most  bitter  fate! 

Relentless,  thy  rancor  doth  waste 

Each  joy  in  my  keeping ;  each  fortune  which  ever  me  faced, 
Thy  hatred  did  smother,  e'er  leaving  but  embers  behind 
Which  me  —  now  forsaken  —  with  former-time  images  blind. 
Life's  high-blazing  fires  and  promising  prospects  will  fail, 
And  the  more  we  possess,  the  more  will  we  lose  and  bewail. 
He  is  the  true  ruler,  who  want's  and  necessity's  cries 
Unuttered  restrains,  and  short-lived  enjoyments  denies. 

249 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


He  is  the  true  monarch,  who,  dying,  behind  him  doth  leave 
Joy-giving  treasures  of  thought,  or  deeds  which  retrieve 
The  errors  of  folly,  so  common,  yet  seldom  discerned ; 
Or  he,  who,  like  Jesus,  by  kindness  to  conquer  hath  learned. 
Alas,  my  great  sorrow,  increased  by  the  thought  of  my  sins, 
Doth  vainly  seek  comfort,  for  comfort  and  virtue  are  twins. 
O  Walram!   Whom  pitiless  anger  did  hunt  unto  death, 
Fulfilled  are  the  curses  which,  couched  in  thy  own  dying  breath, 
From  heaven  were  hurled,  my  conscience  to  smite  and  dismay, 
And]humbled  I  totter,  the  debts  of  the  ruthless  to  pay. 
(Enter  attendant  with  letter.    BAROTIN  reads.) 
"  Not  from  the  grave's  quiet,  doth  Walram's  faint  voice  now  arise, 
But  rescued  from  danger,  and  living.     My  words  shall  surprise, 

0  Barotin,  thee.     Thy  only  son  liveth,  whom  I, 
Thus  sating  my  vengeance,  abducted  to  punish  and  try 
Thy  proud  evil  temper,  which  blasted  my  life,  and  destroyed 
My  poor  wife's  existence,  who  never  thy  pleasure  annoyed. 
To  wreck  thee  by  inches,  to  cut  off  the  joys  and  the  needs, 
Upon  which  man's  nature,  unconscious,  the  hungry  heart  feeds . . 
To  send  all  before  thee,  which  caused  thee  this  life  to  endure, 
I've  planned  and  have  plotted.     Alas,  now  in  doubt,  to  abjure 
My  office  of  judgment,  which  lowers  my  human  estate ; 

For  torturing  others  degrades  us  to  servants  or  hate. 

By  dimming  thy  pleasure,  by  less'ning  the  cheer  of  thy  hours, 

1  wrong  and  abuse  my  own  manhood  and  waste  my  own  powers, 
Which  now  misdirected,  in  unworthy  channels  must  move ; 
Which,  freed  from  this  trammel,  a  source  of  my  solace  may  prove 
When  all  earthly  passions,  like  leaves  in  the  autumn  must  fall, 
And  of  seeming  denuded,  reality  comes  to  appall 

My  staggering  spirit  which  —  pity  me  —  is  thy  soul's  mate 
In  all  that  is  selfish,  and  all  that  doth  suff 'ring  create. 
Thy  son,  though  an  outlaw,  who,  saved  thee  from  other  men's  crime 
Is  noble,  and  worthy  thy  station  to  fill  in  his  time." 
(He  drops  the  letter  with  a  groan.) 
250 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


Too  late  came  this  message.     My  children  arxe  smothered  and 

killed, 
And  my  heart,  filled  with  sorrow,  despairing,  and  hopeless  and 

chilled. 

"  Too  late,"  ah,  "  too  late,"  two  words  of  deep  meaning,  which  stun 
The  mind  of  the  wisest,  who  seeing,  yet  blindly  doth  run 
To  chase  his  own  phantoms  which  never  his  yearnings  can  sate. 
When,  alas,  he  is  sobered,  by  the  two  little  words  of  "too  late." 

(He  dies.} 
(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  V 

ELISA  (stooping  over  the  body  of  BERTHA,  who  dropped  dead 
when  the  garden-house  collapsed).  I  mourn  and  rejoice. 
For  thou  art  my  long-missing  son : 

I  mourn  thy  sad  fortune,  which  endeth  thy  love  scarce  begun ; 
Which  breaks  thy  ambitions,  and  strikes  with  the  furies'  own  ire 
Thy  innocent  heart,  for  the  sins  of  thy  ill-guided  sire. 
I  mourn  thy  joys  plighted,  before  they  could  bloom  and  mature, 
And  well-deserved  pleasures  in  virtuous  struggles  secure. 
I  rejoice  that  thy  sister  has  joined  me  where  passions  no  more 
Her  pure  soul  can  tarnish,  where  pain  never  reaches  the  core ; 
And  that  the  temptation  that  threatened  ye  both  to  disgrace 
God  thus  hath  defeated,  Who  ye  in  my  keeping  did  place. 
Thou,  child  of  affliction,  all  trials,  most  searching  and  stern, 
Are  a  hoard  for  the  future,  and  a  school  where  each  mortal  must 

learn, 

For,  occurrences  fleeting  are  joys  when  contrasted  with  pain, 
But  cease  to  have  virtue,  when  toilless  our  options  we  gain. 

JAROMIR.     Art  thou  then  my  mother,  the  countess  for  whom 

many  mourned, 

Who  ever  her  station  with  womanly  graces  adorned  ? 

251 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


ELISA.     Thy  mother's  own  spirit,  who  living,  thy   loss  did 

bewail ; 

Who  dead,  found  no  solace  since  restless  I  followed  your  trail, 
Which  finally  ended,  and  undisturbed  rest  and  repose 
Shall  henceforth  unceasingly  bless  me,  who  for  thy  sake  rose ; 
For  thou,  like  a  fledgling,  who  of  his  own  mother  bereaved, 
Wert  hapless  and  helpless  —  and  oh,  how  my  yearning  heart 

grieved. 

The  grief  of  a  cycle,  compressed  in  the  space  of  an  hour 
Doth  age  prematurely  its  victims,  with  heart-searching  power. 

JAROMIR.    The  woe  of  a  lifetime,  this  hour  has  brought  upon  me, 
And  all  which  hereafter  may  happen,  indifferent  shall  be. 
Let  tempests  engulf  me,  let  fiercely  new  woes  me  assail ; 
Let  sunbeams  shed  splendor  around  me,  or  fortune  prevail ; 
Unmoved  I'll  encounter  whatever  the  future  me  sends, 
And  meet  with  due  meekness  all  troubles  which  spiteful  fate  lends. 
I'm  stunned  and  distracted,  my  leaden  heart  sinks  with  a  moan, 
And  dullest  indifference  accepts  all  that  comes  as  its  own. 
The  joy  or  the  sorrow  which  reigneth  supreme  in  our  soul 
Doth  lesser  emotions  o'ershadow,  and  ever  control. 

ELISA.     O  son  of  my  bosom,  beloved  and  highly  prized  child, 
Despair  not;   a  lifetime,  though  cheerless,  is  swiftly  beguiled. 
The  span  of  thy  suff'ring,  with  eternity's  promise  compared, 
Is  like  a  small  candle  which  vainly  in  daylight  hath  flared, 
Which  passes  unnoticed,  too  paltry  thy  future  to  warp  — 
Thy  future  which  loometh  God  seeking  where  critics  ne'er  carp; 
Where  doubt,  ever  fainter  assails  thee,  foreseeing  its  doom ; 
Where  darkness,  vacating  its  lodgings,  for  brightness  makes  room. 
Our  suffering  advances  and  quickens  us  while  we  progress, 
While  ease,  ever  lagging,  doth  emptiness  love  and  caress. 

JAROMIR.    Henceforth  my  mind's  feelers  shall  skip  over  joys 

which  they  meet, 

And  pain  shall  seek  vainly  to  frighten  me  into  retreat. 

252 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


The  home  of  my  fathers,  the  Barotin's  vested  estates 
May  fall  into  ruins,  for  nature  my  dwindling  wants  sates, 
With  those  of  all  creatures  who  willingly  with  me  do  share ; 
Not  heir  of  a  castle,  but  of  the  whole  world  a  co-heir. 

ELISA.     Go  hence,  my  loved  darling,  thy  coming  days  spend  in 

retreat, 

Where  mankind  avoids  thee,  and  listen  to  nature's  pulse-beat, 
Which  will  interpret,  in  visible  tokens  or  sounds 
God's  fathomless  wisdom,  which  in  every  atom  abounds. 
Thy  eye  is  a  measure,  will  comprehend  Him  who  gave  sight 
And  the  voices  are  His,  which  ever  thy  eager  ears  smite. 
Pray  thou  for  thy  brothers,  who  ever  by  seeming  conclude ; 
Who,  deceiving  each  other,  hope  God  like  themselves  to  delude ; 
And,  seeking  vain  pleasures,  are  dulling  their  intellect's  eye, 
Which  trained  but  to  trifle,  is  unfit  the  truth  to  descry. 
And  pray  for  thy  kindred.     Oh,  pray,  my  son,  ceaseless  for  all 
Who  have  contributed  to  bring  about  Barotin's  fall. 
When  enemies  threaten,  we  truly  may  hope  to  survive, 
But  our  own  vices  us  ever  of  safety  deprive. 

(JAROMIR  bends  over  his  sister  to  caress  her.  Embracing  his 
mother's  ghost,  he  leaves  the  vault  by  a  secret  passage  into  the 
forest.) 

(Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  VI. 

JAROMIR  (alone  in  a  mountain  chasm).    All  delusions  have  van- 
ished, the  dotard's  experience  is  mine, 

The  future's  face  hidden  seems  nearer  while  things  do  decline, 
Pertaining  the  transient,  whose  destiny  is  to  fulfil 
The  wants  of  the  moment,  which  vainly  mamaimeth  to  still ; 
When  past  hopes  are  blasted,  we  draw  on  the  future  to  feed 
The  mind's  e'er  increasing  desire,  and  the  soul's  yearning  need. 

253 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


(Moaning  is  heard.  JAROMIR  passes  around  a  large  rock  which 
should  occupy  the  center  of  the  stage.  He  finds  WALRAM  half 
conscious,  with  his  eyes  pecked  out  by  the  vultures  which  circle 
above.  He  takes  his  flask,  gives  him  a  drink  and  washes  his 
face.) 

JAROMIR.     O  fateful  misfortune!     O  Walram,  most  deeply  in- 
jured 

Hast  thou  me  in  blindness  of  spirit,  when  thou  hast  allured 
Me  from  the  true  bosom  which  motherhood's  faultless  instincts 
Have  holied  forever.     I  mourn  not  the  loss  of  precincts 
Wherein  I,  as  ruler,  could  follow  my  sire's  proud  reign, 
But  grieve  for  the  mother  whom  thou  hast  so  wantonly  slain. 

WALRAM.     My  blindness  of  spirit,  alas,  has  borne  fruit  of  its 

kind. 
My  spirit,  now  seeing,  has  left  my  poor  body  stone-blind. 

JAROMIR.     Could,  Walram,  my  pity  thy  eyesight  again  now  re- 
store, 
Thou'd  suffer  no  longer.     I  love  thee  to-day  as  of  yore. 

(Kneels  and  prays.) 

O  God,  thou  hast  mercy,  Oh,  strengthen  his  heart  and  forgive, 
For  blind  are  thy  creatures,  not  seeing  the  true  way  to  live. 
Thou  amply  providest  the  needful,  each  in  his  own  turn, 
Yet  blindly  and  stubborn  the  gifts  of  thy  choosing  we  spurn, 
But  eagerly  gather,  what  wisdom  would  scorn  and  refuse ; 
And,  groping  in  darkness,  we  make  but  indifferent  use 
Of  all  the  great  treasures  which  Thou  dost  in  kindness  dispense ; 
O  Lord,  give  us  insight  to  fathom  our  own  impotence. 

(To  WALRAM.) 

Thy  hurt  is  most  grievous.     Oh,  tell  me  the  cause  of  it  all  ? 
Misfortune's  grim  talons  aim  ever  our  hopes  to  forestall. 
Misfortune  calls  on  us  when  least  we  expect  her  approach, 
And  woe  is  her  handmaid,  who  comes  with  her  in  the  same  coach. 

254 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


WALRAM.     Thy  father's  bold  squires  dispersed   our  band  in 

fierce  haste, 

And  I,  seeking  shelter,  sped  hither,  relentlessly  chased ; 
A  rubblestone  tripped  me,  and,  losing  my  balance,  I  fell 
In  this  chasm  of  darkness  —  'tis  all  I  am  able  to  tell. 

JAROMIR.    And  what  of  thy  children  ?   O  brother,  O  sister  of 

mine! 

Have  they  also  perished  ?    Doth  all  with  the  dread  fates  com- 
bine? 

WALRAM.     From  hence  have  I  sent  them,  a  new  life  to  start  in 

new  lines, 

And  I  was  to  follow,  yet  tarried,  for  habit  builds  shrines 
Which  hold  us  in  bondage,  which  draw  us  e'er  back  to  the  spot 
Where  joys  made  us  merry,  or  sorrows,  not  easy  forgot 
Have  marked  as  with  milestones,  the  heart  of  each  pilgrim,  which 

sways 
'Twixt  the  gifts  of  the  moment  and  by-gone,  but  fate-laden,  days. 

JAROMIR.    Aye,  days  of  sore  trials,  of  far-and  deep-reaching 

import, 

Have  us  overtaken  like  tempests,  which  roaming  for  sport, 
Break  down  the  wood's  giant,  which  ever  unbending  doth  reign 
O'er  the  sapling  which,  stooping  in  danger,  doth  safety  attain. 
Thy  eyesight,  which  vanished,  let  me  in  a  measure  supply, 
And  be  thou  my  solace  when  lonely  my  heart  doth  outcry. 
For  all  which  e'er  cheered  me  has  faded  and  left  me ;  but  pain, 
Which  once  I  avoided,  appears  now,  though  sadd'ning,  as  gain. 
Gain  is  each  emotion  which  sobers  and  chastens  the  mind ; 
Intuitious  forerunner  is  suff'ring,  e'er  leaving  behind 
The  dross  of  vainglory,  the  baseless,  yet  pleasing  conceit 
That  we,  of  God's  creatures  alone,  may  the  menace  defeat 
Which  utter  destruction  doth  brandish,  and  which  we  by  rote, 
Ape-like  repeating,  ne'er  doubting,  do  ceaselessly  quote. 

255 


The  Last  of  the  Barotins 


WALRAM.    Alas,  I  have  wronged  thee,  yet  love  thee  e'en  more 

than  my  own, 

And  hoped  to  repay  thee,  and  that  thou  my  sins  wouldst  con- 
done. 

Yet  man,  ever  planning,  gropes  vainly  the  right  way  to  find, 
And  should  he  e'er  reach  it,  he  finds  himself  hopeless  behind. 

JAROMIR.     Grieve  not,  O  Walram,  'tis  human  to  err  and  un- 
bend; 

Most  lives  are  deep  riddles  which  unsolved  by  men  ever  end. 
Yet,  failure  apparent  may  failure  not  be  in  God's  sight, 
And  earth-born  conclusions  may  prove  but  the  dream  of  a  night. 
(Jaramir  carries  blind  WALRAM  from  the  scene.) 
(Curtain  drops) 

THE    END. 


256 


MY  OWN   PHILOSOPHY 


PART  ONE 

Thou  askest,  brother  dearest, 

That  I  my  views  divulge 
Of  all  in  which  the  merest 

And  plainest  men  indulge ; 
Of  God,  of  truth,  professions, 

Of  men,  the  soul  and  mind, 
Of  love,  and  such  expressions 

I  in  your  queries  find. 

Alas,  the  task  propounded 

The  foremost  minds  did  vex, 
And  some  of  them  have  founded 

Odd  schools,  us  to  perplex. 
Since  men  have  lived  and  striven, 

The  wisest  in  their  time 
Have  asked,  'end  answers  given, 

All  more  or  less  sublime. 

We  seek  the  good,  the  better, 

And  something  better  still ; 
The  best  to  find  and  fetter, 

How  great  be  our  skill; 
We  dare  not  hope,  well  knowing 

That  what  we  build  to  last 
May  like  the  wind  that's  blowing, 

Have  vanished  soon,  and  passed. 
25? 


My  Own  Philosophy 


We  strive  for  strong  foundations; 

We  search,  and  sift,  and  probe; 
And  yet,  the  fate  of  nations, 

The  life  of  a  microbe, 
Are  equally  a  riddle, 

Which  we  explain,  not  solve ; 
And  what  we  call  the  middle, 

May  on  the  edge  revolve. 

We  know  not  the  full  features, 

And  needs  must  underrate 
The  force  which  we,  His  creatures, 

As  "  God"  do  designate. 
The  more  us  insight  blesses, 

The  higher  we  do  stand', 
The  vaster  He  impresses 

Us  in  his  footprints  grand. 

And  God  grows  in  proportion 

With  our  strengthening  mind ; 
Or  rather,  our  distortion 

Of  Him,  we  changed  find. 
And  though  we  are  approaching, 

The  distance  greater  seems, 
When  error's  hosts,  encroaching, 

Have  yielded  to  light's  beams. 

The  nearer  that  we  travel, 

The  more  of  God  we  learn ; 
The  more  he  doth  unravel 

What  fain  we  would  discern ; 
The  more  us  growth  enables 

To  see  the  final  doom 
Of  all  the  ancient  fables, 

The  higher  God  doth  loom. 
258 


My  Own  Philosophy 


The  true,  the  pure,  and  kindly, 

Find  in  their  worth  their  shield ; 
To  them  who  ever  blindly 

To  base  impulses  yield, 
God  seems  a  stern  corrector 

Whose  aim  is  to  destroy; 
Alas!   Their  soul's  reflector, 

Shows  them  their  own  alloy. 

The  trinity  of  matter, 

Of  spirit  and  of  God, 
(Forgive,  if  I  should  shatter 

Your  leanings,  roughly  shod) 
Ne'er  did  begin,  nor  ever 

Can  end  and  cease  to  be ; 
'Tis  vain  to  try  and  sever 

Them  from  eternity. 

The  human  insight  pauses 

And  falters  in  its  awe, 
When  seeking  for  the  causes, 

The  universal  law. 
Yet,  aided  by  our  senses  — 

Alas,  but  far  too  few  — 
We  glean,  and  inferences 

Us  with  new  hopes  imbue. 

We  note  that  hidden  forces 

All  things  lead  and  propel, 
That  stars  keep  in  their  courses, 

And  tides  subside  or  swell ; 
In  our  mind's  recesses, 

In  our  heart's  retreat, 
A  power  stirs,  impresses 

Us  with  its  potent  beat. 
259 


My  Own  Philosophy 


'Tis  God,  inseparable 

From  matter  and  from  mind, 
Who  weaves  and  spins  the  cable 

Which  them  together  bind. 
'Tis  He,  whose  guiding  reason 

Doth  lead  all  things  aright, 
And  who,  at  every  season, 

Provides  a  new  delight. 

God,  if  by  us  offended, 

Not  wishing  to  estrange, 
Leaves  us  to  grope,  attended 

By  darkness,  in  doubt's  range, 
Where  we  find  solace  never, 

Where  we  bereft  of  joy, 
In  stubbornness  endeavor 

To  cling  to  base  alloy. 

We  thus,  progress  retarding, 

Receive  the  dues  of  sin 
Which  we,  God's  aid  discarding, 

Invited  to  come  in. 
Though  indirect,  unfailing, 

The  punishment  us  finds ; 
Still,  God  in  all  prevailing, 

Us  of  his  love  reminds. 

God  gave  each  being  powers 

With  which  to  work  and  strive, 
To  fill  the  speeding  hours, 

As  doth  the  bee  her  hive ; 
The  wise,  to  aid  his  fellow, 

Unselfish  at  all  times ; 
The  jesting  clown  to  mellow 

Life's  sternness  with  hisxhimes. 
260 


My  Own  Philosophy 


The  reptile,  he  provided 

With  weapons  of  defense ; 
The  fox,  by  cunning  guided, 

Feels  his  own  consequence. 
Variety  exceeding 

Our  fancy's  boldest  thought, 
Everywhere  is  breeding 

New  forms  in  splendor  wrought. 

God  all  these  things  created, 

Not  solely  for  mankind, 
For  grasping  man,  ne'er  sated 

Is  helpless,  weak,  and  blind, 
Without  the  hand  which  blesses 

Not  less  the  lily's  days, 
Whose  modest  charm  impresses 

Man  in  his  selfish  ways. 

Events  we  see  a-passing 

But  know  not  their  import; 
We  see  odd  signs  amassing, 

Which  former  views  distort ; 
A  genius  inspired, 

Doth  solve  at  last  it  all, 
And  error,  custom-sired, 

Doth  from  its  socle  fall. 

The  tenets  which  we  guarded, 

Defended,  and  e'er  praised, 
At  last  we  have  discarded 

And  truer  dogmas  raised ; 
Yet,  who  will  say  these  changes 

Are  final  and  to  stay  ? 
Man,  erring  man,  arranges, 

But  all  his  works  decay. 
261 


My  Own  Philosophy 


The  truth  alone  is  lasting, 

And  God,  in  doses  small, 
New  pathways  ever  blasting, 

Divulges  them  for  all. 
"Give  us,"  we  are  demanding, 

"The  truth  for  which  we  pine!" 
But  it  is  understanding 

We  need,  and  help  divine. 

For  truths  are  crowding  ever 

Upon  us  everywhere ; 
But  few  possess  the  lever 

With  which  delusion's  snare 
Is  to  be  pried  and  sundered 

From  objects  we  survey ; 
And  all  of  us  have  blundered, 

And  blunder  every  day. 

The  truth,  the  truth  entire 

To  know,  none  e'er  may  hope. 
God,  who  doth  all  inspire 

Made  man  to  search  and  grope ; 
Yet  nearer,  ever  nearer 

Towards  him  each  being  draws, 
Towards  understanding  clearer 

Of  effects  and  of  cause. 

We  say,  "All  was  created," 

Forgetting  e'er  to  add, 
That  none  was  ever  sated 

Unless  he  hunger  had ; 
In  other  words,  that  changing 

A  thing,  creation  means ; 
That  nature,  e'er  arranging, 

On  laws  eternal  leans : 
262 


My  Own  Philosophy 


That  stars  do  come  and  vanish, 

Much  larger  than  the  earth ; 
That  God  doth  aid  or  banish, 

Where  there's  a  break  or  dearth. 
He  takes  and  gives  forever, 

And  ne'er  his  stores  exhaust, 
And  man,  who  thinks  he's  clever, 

Doth  feel  forlorn  and  lost. 

We  feel  forlorn  and  saddened 

When  He  calls  for  his  own, 
Forgetting  how  he  gladdened 

Us  with  His  finite  loan. 
For  loaned  are  all  possessions, 

Our  body  and  our  mind ; 
And  love  and  kindred  passions 

Us  to  our  Maker  bind. 

When  signs,  grim  woe  portending, 

Accost  us  in  our  way ; 
When  grief  our  heart  is  bending, 

We  usually  pray. 
When  joy  doth  pass  our  portals, 

Us  with  the  best  to  treat, 
We  oft  forget  —  weak  mortals  — 

Our  prayers  to  repeat. 

The  prayer  which  God  pleases, 

Which  He  holds  in  esteem, 
The  one  is,  which  ne'er  ceases 

To  flow  like  a  clear  stream ; 
Unuttered,  though,  and  hidden, 

It  reaches  God  before 
The  prayer,  ordered,  bidden, 

Doth  reach  the  chapel  door. 
263 


My  Own  Philosophy 


'Tis  human  to  petition 

When  dire  need  doth  press ; 
But  'tis  an  exhibition 

Of  purest  selfishness, 
If  we,  in  happy  hours, 

Forget  the  due  we  owe, 
Forget  the  kindly  powers 

From  whom  each  boon  doth  flow. 

The  prayer  which  commendeth, 

Wherever  it  may  rise, 
Us  unto  Him,  who  sendeth 

The  best  as  a  surprise, 
Is  that  which  seeks  no  favors, 

No  profits,  and  no  gains, 
But  thankfully  life's  flavors 

Accepts  and  entertains. 

To  pray  for  self,  evinces 

A  narrow,  sordid  mind ; 
Therefore,  true  spirit-princes 

Therein  no  solace  find, 
As  long  as  others  suffer 

Far  greater  woes  than  they, 
They  strive,  unlike  the  puffer, 

Their  fellow's  grief  to  stay. 

A  meteor  hath  landed, 

(All  things  are  apt  to  fall) 
My  ignorance  demanded : 

"Whence  from,  thou  shapeless  ball?" 
Then  spoke  the  hardened  boulder : 

"  A  world  was  once  destroyed 
As  large  as  earth,  and  older, 

Which  me  as  part  employed. 
264 


My  Own  Philosophy 


"There  was  I  sand  and  gravel, 

And  changed  to  soil  in  time  — 
In  living  germs  to  travel, 

My  atoms  found  sublime. 
Sojourning  in  the  flowers 

They  found  a  lodging  place, 
In  creatures  of  great  powers, 

My  atoms  ran  a  race. 

"At  last  again,  creation 

Changed  me  to  what  I  am. 
Before  conglomeration 

My  atoms  thus  did  cram 
They  were  a  restless  rabble, 

Each  followed  its  own  mode, 
Some  in  the  brooks  would  babble, 

While  others  did  corrode. 

"They  sleep  now,  and  are  resting, 

And  when  they  wake,  they  can 
And  will  be  manifesting 

New  traits  in  shortest  span. 
They  go  where  they  are  bidden; 

They  come  when  they  are  called ; 
Behind  them,  He  is  hidden, 

He  who  all  things  installed." 

Scarce  had  the  last  word  ended, 

I  forthwith  pulverized 
A  fragment  loose,  extended, 

And  swallowed  it,  surprised; 
For  thoughts  came  o'er  me  thronging 

Of  a  related  world 
Which  hath,  to  still  my  longing, 

A  message  hither  hurled ; 
265 


My  Own  Philosophy 


A  message  of  destruction, 

Of  birth  again  to  come ; 
My  powers  of  deduction 

Were  stunned  and  staggered  some. 
Commingling  and  entwining 

Beneath  my  girdle's  space 
Were  two  worlds'  parts,  combining 

To  run  another  race. 

These  parts,  one  representing 

An  epoch  past,  forsooth! 
The  other  one  augmenting 

The  value  of  its  youth. 
Yet,  to  my  awe  and  wonder, 

No  weakness  me  engaged; 
Exhaustion,  brings  youth's  thunder, 

And  strength,  the  wine,  if  aged. 

Thus  have  I  had  an  inkling 

Of  how  God  doth  evolve 
The  stars  and  worlds  e'er  twinkling, 

And  other  problems  solve. 
Why  should  not  mind,  its  fetter 

Break  'neath  His  potent  touch? 
And  why  should  man  be  better 

Than  beast  or  bird,  or  such  ? 

Why  should  God,  the  eternal, 

In  kindly  care  e'er  cease  ? 
And  not  for  every  kernel 

Its  sphere  of  growth  increase  ? 
If  matter  doth  forever 

Endure  and  live  and  thrive, 
Why  should  the  mind's  endeavor 

Be  lost  in  nature's  hive? 
266 


My  Own  Philosophy 


Why  should  a  single  vision, 

Or  thought  or  act  e'er  die  ? 
Why  should  —  I  waive  precision 

God's  gifts  not  multiply  ? 
Is  spirit  not  the  highest, 

The  gift  I'd  "treasure"  call? 
Why  brother,  thou  denyest 

Thyself  the  best  of  all. 

If  matter,  after  resting, 

Again  with  zeal  resumes, 
If  space  or  time  molesting 

No  single  atom  dooms, 
Why  should  death  or  stagnation, 

God's  breath,  thy  mind,  defy? 
Take  heart,  and  contemplation 

Will  echo,  "Why,  ah,  why?" 

And  if  the  cosmoplastic 

And  ever  restless  dust, 
E'er  pliable,  elastic, 

Can  leave  a  shattered  crust, 
And  join  a  system  whither 

God  did  its  weight  project, 
Why  should  the  soul  not  thither 

Its  onward  steps  direct  ? 

Why  should  the  soul,  migrating 

From  star  to  star,  not  find 
A  knowledge,  slowly  sating 

The  yearnings  of  the  mind  ? 
Is  not  the  soul  more  subtle, 

Of  a  more  lasting  mold, 
Than  dust,  which  in  life's  shuttle 

Doth  deathless  traits  unfold? 
267 


My  Own  Philosophy 


Not  for  —  nor  backward  seeing 

Nor  sure  of  aught  to-day, 
We  falsely  judge  each  being 

And  misconstrue  God's  way. 
We  grasp  at  straws,  while  mountains 

To  shelter  us  are  prone, 
And  often  miss  light's  fountains 

Which  flow  for  us  alone. 

If  one,  perchance  more  gifted, 

Sees  deeper  than  the  rest, 
We  say,  "Poor  man;   he's  drifted 

From  reason's  high  bequest." 
And  yet,  although  in  error 

Full  nine  of  us  remain, 
The  tenth,  to  us  a  terror, 

The  truth  may  entertain. 

Thou  sayest,  my  dear  brother, 

"Man  is  the  central  fact. 
He's  traits  found  in  no  other 

Thing  which  us  could  attract. 
His  claims  no  bluff  nor  twisting 

Of  facts  can  e'er  dispute ; 
God  did  all  things  existing 

For  mankind  institute." 

Alas,  these  are  old  tenets, 

A  human,  selfish  plan ; 
Though  man  exists  on  planets, 

Yet,  planets  can  spare  man. 
Nor  was  the  rosebud  given 

To  tempt  thee  to  admire ; 
The  rose  can  thrive,  has  thriven, 

Despite  man's  love  or  ire. 
268 


My  Own  Philosophy 


The  rose  her  charms  acquired 

Where  them  thy  strength  hast  gained, 
Where  songbirds,  gay,  admired, 

Their  tuneful  lays  obtained. 
Not  one,  its  need  fulfilling, 

Infringes  on  the  rest, 
Each  one,  unconscious,  stilling 

Its  wants  on  nature's  breast. 

Of  intellect  thou  pratest, 

And  "soulless"  caU'st  the  brute? 
O  brother,  how  thou  hatest 

To  own  but  half  the  truth. 
A  single  round  in  speeding, 

Thou  art  ahead  no  more, 
Upon  the  ladder  leading 

To  heaven's  changing  shore! 

'Tis  heaven  which,  e'er  progressing, 

No  stop  knows,  and  no  pause ; 
Where  deeper  insight's  blessing, 

For  joy  gives  ample  cause ; 
Where  none  his  fellow-leader 

Doth  envy  or  impeach, 
Where  each  one  is  the  pleader 

Of  all,  and  all  for  each ; 

Where  each  again  looks  higher 

With  yearning  for  the  best, 
And,  led  by  warm  desire, 

Seeks  knowledge,  but  not  rest ; 
Where  each '.as  now  is  groping 

Far  from  the  fountain-head 
But  when,  with  darkness  coping, 

By  greater  light  is  led; 
269 


My  Own  Philosophy 


Where  light,  forever  glowing, 

A  brighter  hue  attains, 
And  all  that  lives,  though  growing, 

Still  far  from  God  remains ; 
Where  unknown  senses  gather 

Joys,  which  man  must  forego ; 
Since  earthly  means  are  rather 

Deficient,  weak,  and  slow; 

Where  peace  and  concord  swelleth 

Each  heart,  near  truth's  high  peak ; 
Where  love  eternal  dwelleth, 

And  none  need  shelter  seek ; 
Where  less  evolved  creatures 

Are  yet  with  thee  in  line 
To  strive  towards  Him,  whose  features 

Are  love  and  truth  divine ; 

Where  beings  of  all  stages 

From  violet  to  man, 
Each  cheerfully  engages 

To  bloom,  to  work,  or  plan; 
Where  each  finds  its  fruition, 

In  deed,  or  dream,  or  thought ; 
Where  each  in  wise  division 

Of  tasks,  God's  wonders  wrought : 

There,  brother,  is  the  heaven, 

Which  no  stagnation  knows, 
Where  rest  is  but  the  leaven 

Which  growth  brings  and  bestows. 
There  too,  the  lowly  flower, 

Now  wilting  in  the  sun 
May  gain,  and  in  an  hour 

Of  grace,  us  may  outrun. 
270 


My  Own  Philosophy 


If  we,  in  scorn,  unheeded, 

Our  conscience's  warning  left, 
Which,  with  us  ever  pleaded, 

But  found  of  sense  bereft, 
Then  may  we  fear  and  falter, 

For  conscience  is  God's  voice, 
And  retrogression's  halter 

May  bind  us  —  and  rejoice. 

Of  intellect,  examples 

In  insect,  bird,  or  beast 
We  find.     And  in  the  temples 

Where  pagans  used  to  feast, 
There  man  himself  degraded 

And  fell  beneath  the  brute, 
Who  ne'er  in  virtue  traded, 

Nor  self  did  thus  pollute. 

Thus  do  we  see,  the  higher 

God  does  a  being  call, 
The  lower,  vain  desire 

May  drag  it  in  its  fall ; 
And  that  the  lower  creatures, 

Less  gifted  in  a  way, 
Are  more  immune  from  features 

Which  them  might  lead  astray. 

Yet  are  all  creatures  sharing 

With  us,  love,  joy,  and  pain ; 
Hope,  faith,  and  grim  despairing 

They  all  must  entertain. 
A  dog  may  die  from  mourning 

For  him  whom  he  did  serve, 
And  yet  proud  man  is  scorning 

His  claims,  with  dauntless  nerve. 
271 


My  Own  Philosophy 


All  things  are  good,  and  shelter 

God  gave  to  all,  until 
Man  did  begin  to  welter 

In  blood,  and  maim  and  kill, 
Not  only  that  required 

To  live  in  comfort,  ease, 
But  God's  forbearance  tired 

By  slaying  man's  increase. 

By  ruthlessly  destroying 

What  he  could  not  consume, 
With  sacred  laws  e'er  toying 

Usurped  the  right  to  doom 
All  that  which  force  could  smother, 

Which  cunning  could  compel, 
Producing  endless  bother 

Where  peace  alone  should  dwell. 

The  weed,  the  insect  hated, 

Have  claims  as  good  as  we, 
For  all  things  are  related 

In  life's  e'er-changing  sea. 
The  life  that  crowns  the  highest, 

Doth  in  the  lowest  weave, 
And  what  thou  "one"  denyest 

The  "whole"  has  to  retrieve. 

Though  hardship,  woe,  or  sorrow 

May  a  chastisement  seem, 
It  hastens  on  the  morrow 

The  dawn  of  brighter  gleam. 
It  brings  the  insight  nearer, 

For  which  the  wise  are  known ; 
A  chastened  mind  sees  clearer 

To  find  and  hold  its  own. 
272 


My  Own  Philosophy 


A  chastened  heart  amasses 

Within  its  widening  walls 
The  wealth  despised  which  passes 

And  undiscerned  falls 
From  those  who  worship  blindly 

But  dross  and  empty  sounds, 
While  in  their  reach  the  kindly 

And  lasting  love  abounds. 

A  chastened  spirit  falters 

Not,  when  the  twilight  ends, 
And  night  to  darkness  alters 

All  that  which  God  us  lends. 
The  day  in  twilight  ending 

Doth  likewise,  too,  begin; 
What  God's  one  hand  is  spending 

The  other  taketh  in. 

These  are  my  views,  dear  brother, 

Which  in  the  stress  of  years 
Which  threatened  me  to  smother, 

Did  crystallize,  'mid  tears. 
I  prayed  for  help  external  — 

God  gave  me  peace  instead ; 
I  prayed  for  chaff  —  the  kernel 

I  found  before  me  spread. 

I  prayed  in  childish  urging 

For  that  which  I  did  crave, 
When  sorrow's  billows,  surging 

Within  my  heart,  did  rave. 
Unanswered  these  petitions 

Did  seemingly  remain ; 
And  yet,  despite  omissions, 

The  balance  shows  but  gain. 
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I  prayed  for  lost  possessions  — 

They  were  refused,  denied ; 
Yet,  through  my  purged  passions 

I  greater  wealth  espied. 
The  object  of  my  seeking 

I  could  not  find  nor  see, 
Still  God's  voice,  kindly  speaking, 

Hath  truer  guided  me. 

END    OF  PART   I 


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PART  Two 

'Tis  hard,  and  not  easy  of  solving, 
To  prove  that  all  things  do  exist ; 

Yet  harder  by  far,  'tis  to  reason 
That  all  is  but  shadow  and  mist. 

We  either  were  naught,  and  are  nothing, 
And  shall  end  like  a  void  never  seen ; 

Or,  we  are,  and  have  been,  and  shall  flourish, 
When  change  shall  remove  this  life's  screen. 

Even  dreams  and  illusions  which  dwindle 
When  the  feverish  brain  doth  relax, 

Must  have  a  foundation  for  building 
Their  structures,  which  us  often  tax. 

For  how  could  a  lifeless  thing  fancy 
That  it  lives,  and  of  life's  joys  partakes  ? 

How  could  it  exist,  an  illusion, 

Which  never  its  yearning  thirst  slakes  ? 

We  scarcely  the  truth's  rim  are  grasping 

Which  loometh  beyond  our  ken, 
And  blinded  by  rays  of  light's  splendor 

We  learn  not  the  "why"  nor  the  "when". 

Yet  see  we  the  wide-open  pages 

In  which  He  His  runes  doth  inscribe, 

And  hearing  His  breath  in  each  rustle, 
We  part  of  truth's  glory  imbibe. 

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The  swell  of  the  wave  in  the  ocean 
In  fathomless  language  sounds, 

And  the  firmament's  purple  splendor, 
A  tale  of  deep  meaning  expounds. 

The  darkness  and  light  in  their  changes 
Their  prearranged  tasks  do  fulfil, 

And  Orion's  far-away  twinkle 
Adds  eloquence,  though  all  is  still. 

He  speaks  not  in  words  nor  in  figures, 
Yet  reaches  the  soul  of  each  thing; 

In  a  fitting  and  suitable  manner, 
A  message  to  each  He  doth  bring. 

Unquestioned  by  Turk  and  by  pagan, 
Admitted  by  Christian  and  Jew, 

Is  the  doctrine  that  space  has  no  limits ; 
There's  no  void  which  it  doth  not  subdue. 

And  since  of  necessity  endless, 
It  also  the  endlessness  proves 
Of  him  who  life's  chain  keeps  in  motion, 
Which  ceaselessly  onward  moves. 

His  laws,  one  another  perfecting, 
Are  the  fruit  of  a  sole  intellect ; 

In  the  largest  and  smallest  of  beings, 
We  always  their  oneness  detect. 

All  matter  combined  is  His  body, 
And  the  sum  of  all  spirit,  His  soul  ; 

He's  ever  the  end  and  beginning 
Since  He  is  the  all  and  the  whole. 
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And  thou  who  dejected  art  creeping, 
Tormenting  thyself  in  great  fear, 

Art  part  of  the  whole,  and  rejoicing 
Shouldst  fill  thy  e'er-altering  sphere. 

And  he,  whose  vain  pride  and  ambition 

Owneth  no  God  but  himself, 
Should  ponder,  for  changes  advancing 

Shall  strip  him  of  pride  and  of  pelf. 

Change  checkless,  rest  ever  refusing, 
On  time  in  his  labors  doth  lean, 

And  space  unconfined  and  unfathomed, 
Each  a  part  in  His  faithful  machine. 

Change  ushers  in  fruits  which  time  ripens, 
Some  bitter,  some  more  or  less  sweet, 

And  at  the  same  moment  obscureth 
The  past  in  her  headlong  retreat. 

Change  is  the  one  mainspring  which  wonders 
Performs  in  each  moment  of  time, 

And  time  is  the  pall  and  the  cradle, 
Of  the  commonest  and  the  sublime. 

Time,  known  as  the  ruthless  destroyer, 
Doth  also  bring  joy,  all  to  cheer. 

He  is  but  the  tool  and  the  servant 
Of  the  ruler  confined  to  no  sphere. 

Time,  endless  like  space,  we  do  measure 
By  counting  the  mile-stones  of  change, 

Without  which  the  conscious  wayfarer 
Would  yield  to  despair  in  his  range. 
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We  designate  Him  as  all-knowing, 

And  justly  so,  since  He  is  all, 
And  the  whole,  which  in  space  e'er  existeth 

And  hath  but  His  own  to  install. 

The  thought  which  thy  spirit  enlightens 

Is  a  spark  from  the  ocean  of  fire 
Which  guideth  unerring  each  member ; 

And  doth  to  its  fountain  retire. 

In  the  touch  of  the  deep-delving  mole 

He  feeleth  His  own  pulse-beat, 
And  thine  eye,  which  the  light  doth  perceive, 

Is  a  part  of  His  sight  complete. 

Thy  standpoint  permits  but  few  glimpses, 
And  yet,  He  doth  know  each  detail, 

For  His  are  the  eyes  of  all  beings 
Which,  jointly  observing,  ne'er  fail. 

Though  thine  and  the  warbler's  ear  differ 
To  Him  they  convey  the  one  sound, 

Which  He  doth  bring  forth  through  His  organs, 
Which  limitless  ever  abound. 

Emotions,  deep  hidden,  yet  vital  — 
Since  naught  e'er  existed  in  vain  — 

In  thee,  or  the  lowest  of  beings, 
He  implanted,  and  doth  entertain. 

Each  hair  which  upon  thee  is  growing 

Is  part  of  thyself,  we  concede, 
And  yet  may  thy  coming-on  baldness 

Respect  in  thy  fellow's  minds  breed, 
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Provided  each  hair  thou  art  losing 

Is  replaced  by  a  worthier  gift, 
Which  causes  the  eye  thee  observing 

From  the  good  to  the  better  to  shift. 

Each  part  is  a  dot  or  a  trifle 

Which  often  the  whole  could  forego, 

And  yet  is  each  atom  essential 

When  nature  her  gifts  doth  bestow. 

To  perceive  every  side  of  an  object 

A  single  sense  always  doth  fail, 
And  eyesight,  smell,  hearing,  and  feeling, 

Combined,  may  not  even  prevail. 

Yet  He,  of  whom  each  a  small  part  is, 
Hath  organs,  uncounted,  unknown, 

And  knowing  the  truth  unreserved 
To  Him,  is  possessing  His  own. 

Parts  are  but  parts,  and  can  only 
With  other  parts  make  up  a  whole, 

And  the  soul  in  each  separate  being 
Is  a  part  of  the  Universe's  soul. 

Thy  heart  and  thy  spine  seem  unconscious 

That  each  is  a  portion  of  thee ; 
Yet  thy  mind,  which  grave  problems  is  weighing 

Without  them  would  powerless  be. 

This  proves  that  the  body  and  spirit 

In  completing  each  other  are  one, 
And  that,  when  the  life-tie  is  severed 

They  part,  but  are  never  undone. 
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And  the  life-soul  from  matter  delivered 
Returns  to  its  own  fountain-head, 

From  whence  it,  new  cycles  beginning, 

Seeks  realms  where  new  truth-rays  are  shed. 

While  the  truths  of  the  past  are  forgotten, 
New  senses  us  other  truths  show, 

Which  in  turn,  when  these  organs  are  failing, 
Must  vanish  and  fade  like  the  snow. 

A  life  everlasting  demandeth 

That  the  vanished  forgotten  should  be, 
And  the  future  obscureth  and  hidden, 

Till  change  lifts  the  veil,  and  we  see. 

Could  the  past,  like  a  specter  approaching 

Upon  us,  its  mirror-light  shed, 
Could  the  future  its  storehouse  exhibit, 

The  present  alone  would  be  dead. 

Two  brothers,  alike  in  appearance, 
And  schooleth  and  nourished  the  same, 

Do  often  compare  with  each  other 
As  a  spark  with  Vesuvius'  flame. 

This  proves  that  the  past,  though  forgotten, 

Left  traces  within  the  life-soul 
To  equalize  which  would  require 

Eons,  not  years,  to  unroll. 

But  virtue  and  sin  counteracting 

The  distance  can  swiftly  reduce, 
If  one  chooses  prudently,  wisely, 

While  the  other,  his  gifts  doth  abuse. 
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Though  senses  are  needed  in  forming 
The  thought  which  the  mind  entertains, 

Yet  thoughts  are  proportioned  to  tally 
With  the  aptness  which  in  the  soul  reigns. 

Capacity  first  is  required, 

Before  we  can  fully  digest 
Perceptions  which  either  sense  gathers ; 

This  is  the  soul's  only  bequest. 

From  cycle  to  cycle  advancing, 

Capacity  grows  or  declines, 
And  the  more  of  the  world-soul  thou  ownest, 

The  brighter  God's  light  on  thee  shines. 

If  a  hair  should  be  lost  by  a  kitten, 
'Twould  still  an  abundance  possess, 

And  the  Earth,  if  destroyed  in  a  moment, 
Would  weaken  the  All  even  less. 

Yet  Man,  ever  frail  and  unstable, 

Despising  his  brother,  the  dust, 
Claims  all  that  his  eye  is  surveying 

As  a  prey  for  his  power  and  lust. 

But  the  dust  which  to-day  he  despiseth, 

To-morrow  a  part  is  of  him, 
And  the  mind,  likewise  changing  and  fleeting, 

May  be  weakened  or  filled  to  the  brim. 

These  changes,  to  mankind  so  vital, 
Affect  not  the  All  and  the  Whole, 

And  the  soul  to-day  clouded  and  fearing, 
All  doubt  may  to-morrow  control. 

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My  Own  Philosophy 


Like  a  child  who  is  trimming  the  ringlets 
Surrounding  her  countenance  gay, 

The  Deity,  too,  is  a  pruning 

His  own,  when  a  world  doth  decay. 

But  decay  which  is  seeming  destruction, 
Is  "beginning"  as  truly  as  "end"; 

Is  a  part  of  each  change-ruled  cycle, 
Which  receiveth  again  all  to  spend. 

Decay  and  life's  growth  are  illusive, 

And  "upward"  and  "downward"  are  naught 

These  terms  are  but  makeshifts,  emerging 
From  the  limited  channels  of  thought. 

What  seemingly  reaches  the  zenith, 

Returns  in  the  end  to  its  source, 
Which,  too,  is  the  source  of  all  other ; 

Great  problems,  man  meets  in  his  course. 

The  small  thing  seems  large  to  the  smaller, 
And  the  large,  to  the  larger  appears 

As  a  dwarf  of  its  kind.    But  the  Godhead 
To  Equality's  standard  adheres. 

To  Him  Who  the  truth  is  in  person, 

All  things  are  in  value  the  same, 
The  low  weighs  as  much  as  the  highest, 

And  the  smallest  is  small  but  in  name. 

"Equality"  is  the  earth's  slogan, 

And  likewise  the  law  of  the  All  ; 
Each  atom  of  mind  and  of  matter, 

Doth  ward  off  the  fate  of  the  thrall. 
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An  atom,  to-day  in  the  mire, 

May  reach,  through  the  root  of  a  tree, 
The  crown,  and  the  blossom  there  blooming, 

To  be  wafted  again  to  the  sea. 

And  the  greatest  of  minds  from  the  lowly, 

In  all  the  past  ages  did  spring, 
While  the  high-born  fell  back  to  the  level 

Which  "Equality's"  merits  doth  sing. 

But  why  should  I  cut  my  own  finger, 

Or  cripple  myself,  as  I  would 
By  nursing  one  limb  above  others  — 

Are  they  not  all  equally  good  ? 

Since  each  thing  is  yearning  for  justice, 

And  each  is  a  part  of  the  all, 
The  God,  who  His  own  e'er  preserveth, 

No  hardship  would  vainly  install. 

My  foot  may  be  craving  protection, 
My  hand  may  be  sorely  in  need, 

While  another  part  also  divested, 
For  speedy  assistance  doth  plead. 

Yet  may  I,  whose  planning  includeth 

Each  part  of  myself  —  of  the  whole  — 
Reject  all  these  prayers,  providing 
A  more  needy  part  with  its  dole. 

Thus  the  whole,  which  as  God  we  do  honor, 
Sees  clearer  the  needs  of  each  part, 

And  provideth  in  wisdom  and  justice, 
At  the  most  proper  time,  ev'ry  heart. 
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Yet  He,  like  His  parts,  which  are  human, 
Can  resort  to  the  knife,  to  remove 

A  boil  or  a  cancer  ingrowing, 

If  the  Whole  He  can  thereby  improve. 

An  insect  which  in  the  moss  dwelleth, 
Finds  shelter  and  food  in  its  folds, 

And  the  moss  to  a  stately  tree  clinging, 
A  home,  and  its  safety  beholds. 

The  tree,  which  upon  the  earth  prospers, 
Finds  all  that  it  needs  in  the  soil ; 

And  the  earth,  by  the  sun-rays  enlivened, 
Finds  strength,  ever  onward  to  toil. 

The  sun  in  his  turn  feels  impulses 
Which  keep  him  from  going  astray, 

And  he  filleth  his  place  in  the  household 
Whose  staircase  we  call  "Milky  Way." 

And  the  Milky  Way's  cluster  dependent 
On  clusters  of  a  similar  kind, 

Which  fathomless  space  keeps  in  hiding, 
In  God  its  propeller  doth  find. 

Thus  we  see,  each  being  dependeth 
On  another  one's  surplus  strength, 

And  whoever  this  grade-way  doth  follow, 
Will  surely  reach  God  at  length. 

The  Bible,  they  say,  was  inspired, 
And  the  Koran,  through  Gabriel's  aid, 

Directly  from  Heaven  was  handed, 
Profaner's  doubts  thus  to  evade. 
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The  Vedas,  still  older,  are  claiming, 

As  author,  the  Deity's  hand, 
And  many  a  Pagan  hath  doctrines 

Which  highest  respect  do  command. 

To  me  it  is  clear,  all  impulses 

Which  we  should  transform  into  deeds, 
Are  inspired  by  Him  who  well  knoweth 

His  own,  with  its  hopes  and  its  needs. 

The  thoughts  which  come  over  me  crowding, 
God  thinks  in  the  brain  I  call  mine, 

I  only  interpret,  and  feebly 
My  efforts  His  wishes  define. 

Whoever  God-given  impulses 

In  cowardly  fear  doth  subdue, 
Doth  curtail  the  growth  of  his  life-soul, 

Doth  weaken  where  he  should  renew. 

The  bravest  who  heed  their  own  conscience, 
Count  lightly  abuse  and  all  pain ; 

Not  even  the  cross  and  its  torture, 
The  true  in  their  course  can  restrain. 

But  the  sacrifice  which  they  thus  offer, 
Outweighs  in  its  worth,  a  whole  span 

Of  faint  —  and  of  half-hearted  virtue 
Which  follows  the  fashion  of  man. 

Reformers  inspired,  are  courting 

The  hatred  and  envy  of  those 
Who,  ready  made  doctrines  embracing, 

In  the  bosom  of  ease  repose. 
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Each  epoch  new  needs  must  encounter, 
Which  urgent  new  thoughts  do  demand, 

And  armed  with  God's  wisdom  and  patience, 
The  sage  in  the  foreground  must  stand. 

The  prophet  who  fears  not,  nor  falters, 
Inspired  thought  ably  doth  voice, 

And  the  miser,  who  hoards  up  his  treasure, 
Like  a  convict  doth  act,  without  choice. 

E'en  murder  may,  too,  be  inspired, 

And  death  is  not  always  a  loss, 
And  the  stroke  which  is  felling  a  brother, 

To  the  striker,  may  show  his  soul's  dross. 

The  principle  we  are  denning, 
As  "bad"   seems  to  be  of  some  use 

To  bring  out  the  good  in  all  nature  — 
The  true,  with  new  zeal  to  infuse. 

I'd  dare  not  the  wisdom  to  question, 
Which  alloweth  the  bad  to  exist ; 

Since  good  comes  from  evil,  if  rightly 
We  approach  this  antagonist. 

They  tell  us  our  life  on  this  planet 

Is  a  kind  of  a  primary  school, 
Wherein  we  prepare  for  the  heaven 

Where  bliss,  never  ending,  doth  rule. 

But  instead,  'tis  plain  to  the  thinker 
Who  hearsay  doth  scorn  to  repeat, 

Who  scans  but  the  balance  of  knowledge ; 
That  everywhere  life  is  complete. 
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Eternity  is  but  a  circle 

On  which  we  are  speeding  ahead; 
And  its  center  is  equal  in  distance 

From  the  living  as  'tis  from  the  dead. 

No  "to-morrow"  this  circle  encounters, 
And  "yesterdays"  never  have  been; 

And  the  primer  which  leads  to  perfection 
Is  boundless  without  and  within. 

The  eras  which  we  try  to  measure 
The  days  which  we  count  and  pass  by, 

Are  as  close  to  the  end  which  ne'er  cometh, 
As  the  imagined  beginning  is  nigh. 

Eternity's,  therefore,  the  present, 
Which  never  began,  nor  can  end, 

Which  we  are  dividing  in  epochs, 
Our  faulty  conceptions  to  mend. 

If  God  were  forever  creating, 

(Not  changing,  as  I  herewith  claim) 

Things,  always  destruction  defying, 
Plethora  would  everything  maim. 

And  say  some,  "Creation  not  endless 
Will  cease  when  the  measure  is  filled," 

But  pray,  why  create  when  plain  changing 
Can  all  things  annul  or  rebuild  ? 

And  why  is  the  world  not  a  growing  ? 

But  altered  each  moment  or  span, 
If  matter  is  free  from  destruction, 

Explain  this  to  me,  he  who  can! 
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Wherefore  should  we  need  a  redeemer, 
Whom  the  less  gifted  brute  must  forego  ? 

If  sinful  our  nature  and  selfish, 
What  availeth  all  self -blinding  show  ? 

Whatever  one's  joy  is  abridging, 
What  lessens  our  virtue's  high  aims, 

What  we  may  unjustly  from  others 
Withhold,  is  a  sin  which  us  shames. 

But  senses  we  have,  unless  sated 

In  a  godly  and  natural  way, 
Will  prey  on  the  rights  of  their  brothers 

And  lead  us,  alas,  far  astray. 

Sin  is  but  the  touchstone  of  virtue, 
And  as  long  as  our  senses  exist, 

Will  thrive  and  prevail  in  a  measure  — 
Will  us  in  vain  doings  enlist. 

A  world  where  all  beings  are  senseless, 
Could  never  of  sin  be  accused ; 

But  gifted  and  highly  developed, 
Truth's  organs  are  easy  abused. 

Small  credit  there  is  to  be  sinless 
Where  never  temptations  assail ; 

Where  light  is  a-shining  the  brightest, 
The  clearest-cut  shadows  prevail. 

With  senses  all  dulled  and  decaying, 
Enfeebled,  too  weak  to  do  wrong, 
'Tis  easy  to  preach  and  to  practice 
What  otherwise  graces  the  strong. 
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The  higher  the  mind  is  upreaching, 

The  lower  it  falls,  if  it  falls,  — 
In  striving  for  lofty  ideals  — 

In  heeding  the  voice  which  each  hails. 

Redemption  must  come  from  recesses 
Of  the  innermost  soul,  where  God  dwells, 

Where  shams  and  deceit  are  not  potent  — 
From  the  home  of  both  heavens  and  hells. 

If  the  earth  a  Redeemer  required, 

Who  of  God  is  the  only  true  son, 
Who  shall  in  the  stars  and  the  planets, 

Correct  what  in  sin  was  begun  ? 

Or  must  we  believe  that  all  other 

Universe  dots  like  the  earth, 
Are  neglected,  condemned,  and  forsaken, 

By  him  who  doth  curtail  each  dearth  ? 

And  who  will  redeem  the  vast  numbers 

With  whom  ancient  times  have  been  crammed  ? 

Or  is  there  a  saving  reaction 
Out-blotting  past  woes  of  the  damned? 

A  primary  need  is  religion 

To  man,  who  e'er  searches  and  gropes, 
And  his  needs  are  as  unlike  and  varied, 

As  are  all  his  standards  and  hopes. 

The  one  seeks  and  finds  consolation 
By  scourging  ,his  flesh  with  great  zeal, 

While  another  his  spirit  doth  chasten, 
His  yearning'|soul's  ailings  to  heal. 
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And  there  one  gives  aid  to  the  needy, 
Receiving  his  well-earned  reward, 

And  praying,  or  chanting  sweet  carols, 
The  Poet  enlarges  his  hoard. 

Like  Emerson's  circles,  Religion 
Embraces  the  large  and  the  small, 

And  each  for  his  calibre  seeketh 
A  suitable  faith  to  install. 

The  giant,  whose  mind  ever  soaring, 
O'erleaps  what  can  stay  but  the  thrall. 

And  the  pigmy  lives  up  to  his  measure 
By  trying  in  darkness  to  crawl. 

If  each  does  the  best  in  his  power 

With  the  gifts  in  his  reach  and  command, 

No  blame  should  his  striving  e'er  darken, 
Nor  vainness  his  self-love  expand. 

To  God,  all  is  good  that  existeth, 
He  despiseth  not  efforts  well  meant, 

E'en  though  like  a  snail  one  is  creeping, 
His  time  is  not  wasted,  misspent. 

The  clergy,  if  true,  and  not  shamming, 
Believing  the  doctrines  they  teach, 

Are  surely  God's  foremost  exponents, 

Whose  life-work,  none  e'er  should  impeach. 

'Tis  vain  to  claim,  he  who  doth  differ 

From  thee,  is  a  lie  or  a  fraud, 
Since  the  erring  would  soon  be  enlightened, 

If  such  were  the  planning  of  God. 
290 


My  Own  Philosophy 


Progress,  with  no  forces  opposing, 
In  sloth  and  stagnation  would  end, 

Since  e'er  contradiction  the  spur  is 
Mistakes  and  misuses  to  mend. 

And  the  low,  like  the  high,  need  a  leader 
To  show  them  all  that  they  can  see ; 

For  me  is  the  path  of  restriction, 
And  the  broad  and  exalted,  for  thee. 

One  finds  in  the  Bible  salvation, 
Another  the  Koran  holds  dear. 

A  third  pins  his  faith  to  a  trifle, 
Exciting  the  scoffer  to  sneer. 

But  doctrines  and  books  are  inventions 

Begotten  to  serve  for  a  day, 
And  like  all  that's  coming  and  going, 

They  end  in  the  trail  of  decay. 

The  sage  who  the  stars  tries  to  follow, 
Has  a  book  much  more  likely  to  last, 

And  yet  he  seeks  vainly  to  fathom 
God's  forces,  undying  and  vast. 

God's  forces,  renewing  each  other, 
Are  neither  in  books,  nor  the  skies 

Completely  revealed,  but  foreshadowed 
For  guiding  the  mind  of  the  wise. 

We  learn  by  what  little  perception 
Makes  clear  for  the  striving  thought, 

That  the  seemingly  unsurpassing 
Is  surpassed  by  the  truth,  if  sought. 
291 


My  Own  Philosophy 


We  learn  that  between  the  shadow 

And  the  sun  an  object  stands, 
Since  the  one  implies  the  other, 

And  our  vision  thus  expands. 

And  the  more  our  vision  is  growing, 

The  richer  grows  the  field 
Where  inexhaustible  treasures 

Their  stores  to  insight  yield. 

Each  sees  but  as  far  as  the  orbit 
Of  his  vision,  confined  and  small ; 

And  each  has  a  world  which  no  other, 
Can  also  his  kingdom  call. 

The  one,  with  great  zeal  doth  endeavor 

But  material  wealth  to  gain; 
While  another  strives,  ever  untiring, 

Love's  promptings  to  entertain. 

And  a  third,  who  despises  emotions 
And  earthly  possessions  shuns, 

May  yield  to  a  force  which  compelleth 
And  follows  the  paths  of  the  suns. 

Each  finding  the  task  of  his  choosing, 

Or  rather,  to  him  assigned, 
And  directed  by  instincts  unerring, 

Another  truth  grasps  with  his  mind. 

Each  rules  in  his  sphere  undisputed, 
To  cherish  what  others  despise, 

To  gather  the  wealth  which  none  claimeth, 
Which  solely  for  him  did  arise. 
292 


My  Own  Philosophy 


God's  high-priests,  the  Poets  and  Prophets, 
To  whom  He  Truth's  outskirts  unveils, 

Get  glimpses  amid  mind's  travailing 
Perceiving  where  man's  judgment  fails. 

But  fools,  who  the  new  are  abhorring, 
And  by  usage  are  bound  to  the  past, 

In  Christ,  as  in  others,  discovered 
A  danger  to  all  they  possessed. 

And  raging  in  thoughtless  delusion, 
The  crown  of  a  martyr  they  fling 

On  the  brow  of  their  victim,  thus  giving 
His  teachings  their  undying  wing. 

The  fool,  like  the  sage,  has  his  uses, 
And  a  most  willing  tool  at  all  times 

Is  he.     While  the  pain-racked  Reformer 
Despairing,  his  pedestal  climbs. 

"  Equality's"  forces,  ne'er  resting, 
United  with  "Change"  will  redeem 

In  time,  all  the  errors  of  folly, 
And  curb  proud  ambition's  vain  dream. 

And  Hope  shall  not  prove  a  delusion, 
And  Love  shall  its  circles  extend, 

Outreaching  e'en  space,  the  unfathomed  — 
And  this,  for  to-day,  is 


THE    END. 


OF  THE     ^ 

UNIVERSITY 


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x<?>u 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRA 
BERKELEY 


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APR 


507n-7,'16 


DUvJU  f 


